


Undoomed

by Two_and_a_Half_Guys



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adventure, Feanorions, Humor, Meddling Valar, The Valar, There's a sister story! Go read it!, We're clearly a little loony
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-06-04 21:17:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6675742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Two_and_a_Half_Guys/pseuds/Two_and_a_Half_Guys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When an accident (?) leaves the Halls of Mandos in shambles, the Vala of Death decides that it's time for the sons of Fëanor to put their talents to something more useful than destroying his home and tormenting his wife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Dead Butterfly

A/N: As both of us love Tolkien and all of his associated works, what better way to release our frustra—ahem, creative sides, than to write a story about the Amazing Adventures of the Seven Fëanorians? Enjoy!

* * *

"It's definitely broken."

The young _fëa_ made his shaky observation and glanced nervously up at his brother, who glowered, the expression looking highly out of place on his normally light-hearted face.

"You call that broken, Caranthir?" he growled. "That's the understatement of the Age! You"—he sputtered and instead turned to the elf behind them—"Curufin, you know I enjoy your fun, but I think this is a bit too much!"

"See if I give a damn," the sallow-faced elf tossed over his shoulder as he sauntered off.

"You had better give one!" the hunter bellowed after him. "For Eru's sake—"

Somewhere deep in the rubble, a few heads surfaced, hacking out dust. Even for disembodied fëar...getting crushed by a palace was still pretty painful. They paused for a moment, gasping for breath, their heads resting at uncomfortable angles on the surrounding scree. Then the redheaded fëa scowled up at the distant ex-floor.

"How many bets on those three?" he asked grimly.

* * *

"I have given you the refuge of my halls," the Doomsman said in his deep, echoing whisper. "I and my wife have given you sanctuary and peace—respite from your mortal days—and this is how you thank the both of us?"

Around them, the Halls of Mandos were...no longer halls. The Vala had spent just enough thought to piece together the throne room before he'd spun on his heel and taken a seat to reprimand the seven elves kneeling before him.

"Our sincerest apologies, my lord." Maedhros spoke, his eyes downcast. "My brothers were not in their right minds when this occurred."

"And your simple apologies will repair this castle, will help heal the other damaged _fëar_?"

"No, my lord."

Mandos sighed heavily and leaned back, liquid cowl shadowing his brow. His pale eyes gazed at all seven of them at once, each brother feeling the Vala's disapproving stare boring into him. It wasn't a comfortable feeling. It never was. In fact, normally it was enough to cause physical pain, even if they no longer had their corporeal bodies.

"Too long have I dealt with you Fëanorians and your pranks." The Doomsman's bloodless lips curled into the faintest hint of a snarl. "Millennia have I spent cleaning up after you and your father, only to do so yet again within a century of the latest incident."

Snickers could be heard from three of the brothers, although none of the _fëar_ present dared turn to see which ones they were. It wasn't as if they had to; they all knew who the three were, as it seemed that Celegorm had brushed off his momentary sobriety. The remainder kept their bowed heads and respectful silence before the Vala.

"I have spoken with my brother, and he is in agreement with me," the Lord of Mandos continued after a long pause. "The seven of you are a waste of space and time here in my halls"—"My lord!" Maedhros interjected, appalled—"not to mention a source of chaos in my otherwise peaceful home," the Vala continued mercilessly, raising his hand for the elder Fëanorion to be silent, "but that is beside the point."

His pale eyes appraised them, each whispered echo resounding through the hall. "We have come to the decision that you would be of more use to Arda in Middle Earth, as opposed to here where you seem to do nothing aside from disrupting my household."

"My lord!" the redheaded _fëa_ repeated. The seven brothers stared up at the Doomsman, realizing his implication. Again the Vala raised his hand, and his voice softened.

"You were all great warriors once, sons of Fëanor." He paused. "Had your oaths not bound you to your father's senseless bloodshed, you could have done much good."

A sneer, and the brothers turned their shocked gazes to their sallow-faced sibling. "Our father's oath was ours to take," Curufin growled. He laughed bitterly. "We, the filial sons of the Age, the good that we did was we followed our father to his and our last. And you"—he pointed a thin, accusatory finger at the Doomsman—"you repaid our love with nothing but sorrow!"

"You are blinded, Curufin son of Fëanor," the Vala uttered, his bass voice rising above a whisper for the first time. The newly-raised walls trembled at each word that he pronounced. The Halls, dark as they already were, dimmed to almost nothingness; only the pale fires of Námo's eyes blazed.

"For the rest of you," he rumbled, "this will be my first and final blessing. For you, Curufin—you who so blindly follow—this shall be your cure, so that you may rid yourself of the poison you have spun."

The seven brothers staggered as the Halls began to fade, the liquid wind of the Doomsman's robes enveloping them in darkness.

"Henceforth thou shalt renounce memory of thy father's oath, and be bound not by it," his voice boomed out around them. "Thou shalt remember the sins of thine pasts but not why they are so. Only when thou hast wholly atoned for thine sins shalt the knowledge of thine oaths return, and may you see then the true folly of Fëanor."

Above them the twin fires loomed, then disappeared. All was silent.


	2. Chapter 1: A Few Dead Elves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The brothers are back in Middle Earth, and of all the places to end up, they've landed right on the doorstep of an old acquaintance.
> 
> A note on names: Beginning in this chapter, we'll be introducing the familiar names of the brothers (the ones by which they call each other). In The Silmarillion, many characters have several names (a father-name, a mother-name, a king-name, etc.); the same applies to this set of brothers. Here's the brothers' list for clarification, in order of eldest to youngest:
> 
> Maedhros the Tall = Nelyafinwë (fn), 'Nelyo', Maitimo (mn), Russandol (kn)  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë (fn), 'Kano', Makalaurë (mn)  
> Celegorm the Fair = Turcafinwë (fn), 'Turko', Tyelkormo (mn)  
> Caranthir the Dark = Morifinwë (fn), 'Moryo', Carnistir (mn)  
> Curufin the Crafty = Curufinwë (fn), 'Curvo', Atarincë (mn)  
> Amrod = Telufinwë (fn), 'Ambarto'  
> Amras = Pityafinwë (fn), 'Pityo'  
> Additionally, the twins refer to each other not by their familiar names, but by their mother-name, Ambarussa. (Yeah...their mum was a bit lazy and gave them both the same name.)

* * *

 

The darkness that surrounded them faded first to grey, then to a pale blue shot through with rosy orange. Maedhros blinked up into the blueness above him, hearing the cries of seagulls as they floated on the breeze overhead. This gradient...this shade...he knew this image by nature if not by heart.

"The morning sky," he whispered.

How many hundreds and thousands of years had it been? How long since he had gazed upon anything beyond the dimly lit stones of the Halls of Mandos, since he had seen real colors and not just the threads of thought that passed for color among the dead, since he had truly seen light and sunshine? And—yes, he could feel again, he could feel! Gritty harshness beneath his flesh, he thought hard to his muscles and his eyes flicked down and he saw a finger twitch, a flesh finger, not just the shadow of one that his fëa—that _he_ —had had just a while before. Still no right hand...but that was fine. One hand was all he needed. And this wonderful feeling of something cold, of something...damp? No, not damp. Positively soggy.

"Agh!?"

The eldest Fëanorian leaped up. He had been laying on a bed of wet sand and his trousers were thoroughly soaked; the cold morning wind snapped through his clothes, causing him to wince. With clumsy fingers he swatted some sand off, attempted to wring out his trousers, but the sound of rolling water, of vastness, drew him away. He was free—free—alive! He inhaled deeply, tasting the saltiness of the sea air as he drew another true breath for the first time in centuries.

To his left rolled what must be the Sundering Seas, almost an old friend as it greeted him with its familiar gentle spray, and to his right rose tall cliffs of stone that towered over the little stretch of beach he stood on. For a moment he forgot why he was there and simply lost himself to enjoying the sounds and smells of the Sea.

"Ahhhhhhh!"

"No, no, sh-sh-sh, it's not that, you're fine—Ambarussa, you're fine, you're safe—"

The redheaded elf spun to see where the cries had come from. A ways down the shore Amrod was curled in on himself in the sand, rocking to and fro and keening, while Amras tried desperately to comfort him. He started towards them when an angry splash and splutter came from somewhere to his right.

"Curse him!" Curufin spat, face sour. "Of all the places, that damn Vala had to plop us in the middle of an ocean!"

"We're all on dry land. What's your problem?" came Celegorm's chuckle from behind.

The sallow-faced elf merely scowled at his brother, then turned in a wide circle, examining his surroundings intently. Celegorm and, the redheaded elf was relieved to see, Caranthir were a distance closer to the cliffs, similarly gazing around as they made their way towards the rest of their siblings. But where was…?

"Nelyo!"

Maedhros turned yet again and sighed with relief as the willowy figure of Maglor scrambled towards him, almost tripping over his own feet in the process. All six brothers accounted for and unharmed (though Curufin's pride was questionable).

"Brother—can you believe it?" he whispered as he approached. "We have returned to Middle Earth—we are alive again!"

"It's...remarkable," Maedhros murmured, watching as the three middle siblings huddled together and started arguing. His brow furrowed as he looked over the willowy elf's shoulder; the ruby-haired twins were still tangled in each other's embrace upon the sand, one soothing the other. "Whatever is the matter with Ambarto?"

Maglor followed his brother's gaze and his expression twisted, pain clear on his face. There was a long pause. "I think...I think that he is remembering Losgar."

"Ah," Maedhros said, and guilt washed over him. How could he have forgotten?

"It was the last memory he has of Middle Earth," Maglor continued, seeming to have not heard Maedhros. The words tumbled out, more to himself than to the brother who stood watching him with sorrow. "I cannot imagine it was a pleasant one…. We must remember that he...died...on these shores, and the roar of the Sea is not unlike the roar of the blaze that e-ended his life…" His voice trailed off, and he took a deep, shuddering breath, finally turning his gaze back towards Maedhros. "Perhaps he is just a bit overwhelmed at the moment, Nelyo."

"Brothers!" They turned to see the trio heading towards them, though it was impossible to tell who spoke; Caranthir and Curufin were bright-eyed, while Celegorm lagged behind, sending a concerned glance back towards the twins every few moments. The sallow-faced elf glared at the hunter for a moment, then huffed and swung his gaze back around.

"Turko here thinks he may know where we are," he said. He jerked his head towards the ruddy-faced elf behind him. "Moryo and I are going to see if he is correct."

Maedhros raised an eyebrow at this, inviting him to continue, but Curufin turned away, his expression even more sour than before. Caranthir rolled his eyes and spoke, to everybody's surprise.

"If we can get to the top of that cliff," he explained slowly, flapping a hand towards the sheer wall of stone nearby, "perhaps we may see some landmark to give us direction. That makes sense, hm?"

"Should not Turko go with you?" Maglor interrupted with a concerned knit in his brow, his arm moving slightly to keep Maedhros from hissing at Caranthir. "Surely he has more experience scaling cliffs than you two hotheads."

"I think it would be best for me to remain here," Celegorm answered slowly, once again looking to the two youngest twins clutched in each other's arms. "I worry for Amrod. I think he is not taking this transition back to life too well… and Eru knows you two"—he jerked his head towards the two eldest brothers, a slight quirk in his lips—"will be of little, if any, help to him." Maedhros scowled at the hunter, while Maglor, pleasant and puppy-faced as he always was, somehow managed to look hurt by the comment.

"Besides, you know that your whole 'buck up and deal with it' speech has never worked well on those two, dear elder brother," Caranthir spat at the redhead, unable to keep quiet any longer, before turning on Maglor. "And somehow I don't believe a batch of warm cookies and a song on your harp is going to fix this one. Not that I suppose you'll find an oven out here anyway, you hoary old _elleth_ —"

_Smack._

"Ow!"

"Just go," Maedhros growled, his one hand still raised. Caranthir and Curufin slunk off toward the cliffs, while Celegorm made his way over to the Ambarussa twins.

Maglor smiled to himself at the sight. The hunter always turned into such a mother hen when it came to the two ruby-haired twins. It probably had something to do with the many hunts the three of them had gone on together back in Aman, he reflected wistfully.

As Celegorm did his best to comfort the youngest members of their family, Maedhros watched the two elves scaling the cliff face with apprehension. Maglor, not having anything better to do (and wanting to enjoy the moment a bit longer), sat down near the trio of hunters with a fond grin, fingers aching for his catgut harpstrings. Amrod's sobs quieted, soon leaving only the sounds of crashing waves.

None of them noticed the muted drumming of hooves on sand until it was too late. Shouts of aggression and the ringing of steel sliced through the air like arrows. Maedhros spun around, eyes casting about wildly. From a distance down the beach a party of elves galloping towards them, their armor and swords glinting in the morning sun.

"Ahhhhhh!"

"Not again! Ambarussa—"

"He just calmed down, damn you!" Celegorm bellowed toward the riders, earning him a punch on the shoulder.

"Language!"

" _Is this really the time to worry about that, Kano?_ "

The willowy elf pulled his brothers to their feet, Amras supporting Amrod, but as they began to move Maedhros sent them a warning look.

"Stay where you are," the tall redhead muttered, stepping to the front. He raised his arms slightly, ensuring that his brothers were staying behind him. "I doubt fleeing will do us any good." He spared a glance at his two remaining siblings, who were still focused on scaling the cliff face—so much so that they didn't even notice the three armored elves waiting for them at the top. Maedhros sighed in frustration and resignation as the patrol surrounded them, arrows nocked at aimed at the cluster of brothers.

"Well, well, well. What have we here?" one of them said as he dismounted his horse, his voice dripping with suspicion. His attitude made Maedhros want to vomit, but he was clearly the commander in charge, and so he refrained. "Five mysterious elves, washed up on the beach? On the eve of war, no less."

"I assure you, we mean no harm," Maedhros said, raising his arms to show he had no weapons. In fact, none of them did. All they had were the clothes on their backs (and though Námo had been so thoughtful as to give them modern garb, he obviously didn't trust them with weapons yet). He glanced at his brothers and spoke smoothly. "I know what you're thinking, and trust me, it's not what it looks like. We are but travelers fallen on a bit of hard luck. Might you be so kind as to point us in the direction of the nearest elven settlement?"

"Hn! Travelers?" the commander laughed. "Spies, more like!"

Maedhros glared down at the commander, who grew even shorter under the fiery gaze. Maglor, meanwhile, was doing his best not to be intimidated by a rather aggressive-looking female elf, going slightly cross-eyed as he tried to keep sight of an arrow drawing near his nose. Celegorm visibly rolled his eyes as he straightened, bringing an exhausted Amrod upright with him; Amras looked just as tired as his twin as he leaned against the hunter, although his cheeks were considerably less tearstained.

"Why would you think us spies?" questioned the hunter as he pulled the twins closer to him. "Are we not your own kind?"

"Was it not Maeglin, Turgon's kinsman, who betrayed the the location of Gondolin? Did not the Sons of Fëanor slaughter the Sindar Elves at Doriath over naught more than a pretty gem? Did their father not leave the people of Fingolfin to freeze to death over the Helcaraxë? History has made it clear to me that kinship is a poor indicator for loyalty."

All was still.

"So this is how we are remembered…" Maglor whispered.

"What was that?" The aggressive-looking she-elf glared down at him from atop her steed. The silence was broken by the sounds of a struggle, coming from the top of the cliff. Maedhros turned to see his brothers, now high above the beach, fighting against the three elves he had seen waiting for them. One of them stopped writhing fairly quickly, apparently realizing that without weapons there was no way to win this fight. The other, presumably Caranthir, kept fighting.

"What're you looking at?" the commander sneered, his confidence returned now that he wasn't being towered over (as much).

"Please, please, just give up," Maglor muttered, ignoring the commander and staring up at the brawling silhouette of their persistent brother. "You can't win this one, Moryo, not unarmed."

* * *

"Morifinwë! Cease your madness!" Curufin shouted at his brother, his own hands raised in surrender. Nearly as soon as they had pulled themselves over the cliff the three armored guards had leaped towards them, and the younger Fëanorian had surrendered just as quickly. In the past he could have taken them with ease, but with this shaky new body, he knew the chances of him emerging victorious were slim to none. His brother, on the other hand, was not so observant. Eons certainly hadn't worn away the dullard's reflexes—nor had they made him any more intelligent.

"No!" had come the reply from the elder, as he grappled with two of the armored elves, the third of which was occupied with binding Curufin's wrists in front of him. "I refuse to be taken prisoner so easily! Why do you not fight as well?"

" _Auk_ ," the sallow-faced elf spat. He slouched back and watched as Caranthir fought with the rage of a cornered beast. Most blows were dealt with his fists, which were becoming bloody and deformed from their constant bashing against the elves' sharp and sturdy armor. However, he wasn't one of the (in)famous sons of Fëanor for nothing. One of the two guards had blood dripping from his nose, and the other was rattling clumsily about, chest plate hanging from one remaining strap of leather.

The third guard hesitated, glancing towards Curufin; the sallow elf merely shrugged and nodded him ahead. The guard looked at him suspiciously, then let go and pulled a flask from his belt, tearing a strip off his tunic. With a thumb he popped the stopper off and thoroughly soaked the rag as he dodged into the fray. With a twist the guard somehow managed to snatch Caranthir away from the other guards and clapped the hand holding the rag over the struggling Fëanorian's nose and mouth.

"Ghrmmmrg!"

"Stop struggling, Orc-spawn!" the guard growled at him. Caranthir's muffled shouts were barely audible to his brother, who shook his head in disgust as his older sibling eventually quieted, his thrashing limbs falling limp.

"Why didn't you do that earlier?" one of the guards panted. He grabbed another stretch of rope and made short work of the unconscious elf, then staggered upright, swiping the blood off his face. Curufin remained impassive as the tallest guard tossed another strip of tunic to the bleeding guard, then swung Caranthir over his shoulder. One of the other two grabbed the sallow Fëanorian's arm, and in that fashion he was led off. To where, however, was anyone's guess.

* * *

"I suppose we ought to make that seven spies then," the commanding elf said with a scowl in Maedhros's direction, before giving a nod to the other soldiers. "Bind their hands."

Immediately, the few who did not have arrows aimed at the sons of Fëanor moved to secure their wrists, but the one who approached the eldest brother blinked in confusion as he grabbed the stump of an arm. He held it aloft for his commander to see.

"He has no right hand, Limdir," the soldier said, confusion evident in his eyes. "How am I to bind his wrists? The rope will only slip off."

The commander—Limdir—huffed in indignation as a grin tugged at the corners of Maedhros's mouth. "Let him be, then," he said as the last soldier tied Celegorm's wrists together. "Watch him closely though. I will not have prisoners escaping simply because they are maimed."

He heaved himself back into his saddle, then straightened. "Now, let us go. The sooner we return to Mithlond, the sooner we can be rid of these traitorous scum."

"Mithlond! Then I was right," Celegorm nearly gasped as he was prodded with an arrow, urging him to follow Limdir and his company.

"Quiet!" hissed a soldier, poking him yet again. The brothers were surrounded as they moved, soldiers guarding either side of them, bows at the ready. But the hunter still leaned close to Maedhros and whispered to him.

"If they are taking us to Mithlond, that would put us…"

"Aye," the eldest breathed, "right on Gil-galad's doorstep."


	3. Chapter 2: Welcome to Mithlond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who should be the first to greet the brothers upon their return to Middle Earth but Ereinion Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor? Meanwhile, Curufin is plagued by a strange symptom.

* * *

 

"Oof!" Maglor gasped as Maedhros's elbow found its way into his gut. The two of them tripped over each other as they were unceremoniously tossed into a dank and roughly-hewn cell, one of the many in the dungeons of The Grey Havens. The musician fell on his face, cheek wedged into the gap between the wall and floor; Maedhros was more fortunate and instead smashed his nose into the wall, remaining upright. As soon as the door slammed shut behind them, the redhead set to picking at the knots in the rope binding Maglor's wrists together.

As Maedhros persistently worked to untie his brother's hands, he heard the latch of the door to the cell adjacent to theirs click shut as well. The soft tapping of leather on stone approached their cell again and the redhead quickly squashed Maglor against the wall, trying to appear as downtrodden as possible.

"Not so high and mighty now, are you," one of the guards sneered as he paused outside of their cell.

"The King will be angry if you don't hurry, sir," another elf called, and the footsteps resumed, slowly receding upwards and away. A louder, heavier slam sounded, and silence settled over the stone cells. Maedhros hesitated a moment longer, peering out the iron bars of the door's hatch.

"Get your rump out of my face, _please_ ," Maglor's muffled voice floated from somewhere near the ground.

"Sorry," the redhead muttered, and turned back around. Damn small cells—he couldn't even crouch properly in them. Squinting, he continued picking at first one piece of the knot, then the other, and grunted in satisfaction when a part began to come loose.

"The others, are they here as well?" Maglor panted. "And could you help pull my face out of this corner?"

Maedhros heaved him upright with his stump of a right arm, pulling the last of the knot apart with his left hand. "I think so. The guards came from the right, and I heard a latch—"

"Turko! Ambarto! Pityo! Are you unhurt?"

"Keep your voice down!"

"Aye," came a hoarse reply, the voice identifiable as the blond hunter's, and the two eldest brothers sighed in relief. "As are the twins. A little shaken, but overall unharmed."

"Good," Maglor breathed, sighing with relief as the rope around his wrists slipped off. Maedhros pulled up the hem of his tunic and wrapped the rope around his waist, securing it with a rapid knot. As he patted his tunic down, checking that the rope was hidden, he said, "I suppose at this point, we can only hope that Curvo and Moryo are as unscathed."

"Somehow I doubt that will be the case," the hunter snorted as footsteps edged once again down the corridor—this time accompanied by the sound of dragging feet.

Maglor twisted around towards the hatch, craning his neck upwards in a vain attempt to see the door high above and thus who it was that was coming.

_Please, let it be those two, and please, let them not be hurt._

The heavy door creaked open and the light from beyond cast long shadows, a huge shapeless mass. A dozen footsteps or so later and the mass separated to reveal a disheveled-looking Curufin, marched along by one guard, and an obviously unconscious Caranthir, his limp body slung heavily between two other guards. Their groans and curses echoed down as they struggled to drag the elf down to the cells.

"Fatso," the two eldest brothers heard from the cell beside them, and despite the situation Maglor managed to smile. Whatever had knocked Caranthir out, it had only bloodied his knuckles, and most usually that was a good sign. Usually.

With a clunk the first guard—why was his tunic so ragged?—pulled open the door of the cell across from them, and the two brothers were none too gently introduced to their new lodgings. Soon after, the heavy door high above them slammed shut again. Silence; then:

"Curvo?"

"Alive and kicking," the sour voice grunted, followed by a long sniff.

"Kicking?"

"Don't be daft, Celegorm, there's hardly room to breathe as it is." Another sniff.

"I was even trying to be _concerned_ for once—"

"What is wrong with Moryo? Did they do something to him?" Maglor cut in. The smile quickly disappeared as his brow knit for the second time in eons. Visions of all that could have happened to his brother ran through his mind…. A glance at Maedhros's stormy expression did nothing to help, and Curufin's next words only added to his mounting fear.

"They did something to him." _Sniff._ "Something to render him unconscious, but aside from that I know not." _Sniff._ "His hands are bleeding, and I think he has broken his knuckles." A long, drawn-out snuffle.

"Perfect. This is just perfect." Maedhros sighed in resignation, leaning his backside up against the rear wall and sliding down to sit on the floor. A muffled yelp from Maglor and he shifted off of the willowy elf's hand. "Not a day has passed since we returned to Middle Earth and Moryo has already done something stupid—"

The sound of sniffles and cloth ripping interrupted Maedhros's tirade as Curufin tore a strip of cloth from his still-soggy tunic and began wrapping his limp brother's broken and bleeding hands—though he did a poor job of it, what with his wrists still tied and being backwards and all.

"Curvo, are you crying?" Celegorm asked from his place in the middle of an Ambarussa sandwich. "How sentimental."

The darker brother nearly spat at his sibling, "No!" He was quiet for a moment, the only sound being his constant sniffling. A long, drawn-out snort of air. "There seems to be something…wrong…with my nose."

* * *

Ereinion Gil-galad was having a trying day, and it had only just begun. It had started out in the small hours of the morning, before the sun had even poked the first rays of her light over the horizon. The moon was still round and high in the inky sky, with Elbereth's stars glimmering around him when the High King was shaken violently from his sleep. Not from a physical touch—goodness knows it had been ages since anyone had dared near him—but by the afterimages of a dream.

No, not even a dream. A vision, and in his heart of hearts he knew it was sent by the Valar.

_He stood on the beach, the seas roaring on before him as they always had. The first light of morning was in the sky, and he was alone save for an impossibly tall, dark-robed figure next to him. His hair was the color of a raven's feathers, and his eyes glowed as pale blue embers, and Gil-galad knew he gazed upon Námo, the Vala of Death and Fate. For a time they stood there, the sea-wind tossing their hair like wisps of spider silk, until the Doomsman spoke._

_"Reforged have been the seven stars, and sent to you as vassals from over the Sea."_

_The Vala bent down and reached into the surf, pulling out seven smooth stones, three black, one white, and three red, one of these last ones with a chip in it. These he placed in the King's hand, and when he looked closely, Gil-galad could see that each was adorned with a small, silver star._

_When he looked up, the Lord of Mandos was gone._

That was when he woke, drenched in sweat and tangled in his sheets. The King knew he would not sleep after that, and rose from his bed to draw a bath—the poor servants, it was early, after all—and think on what he had seen.

And so it came to be that Gil-galad had spent the majority of his morning with his eyes half-lidded and his hand outstretched over a perfect sphere of glassy black stone. A palantír. _His_ palantír, he liked to think. True, most of them he had given to the Númenoreans, but he had still kept one for himself. The High King of the Noldor couldn't quite bring himself to relinquish all of Fëanor's fabled seeing stones.

He searched. For what specifically he did not know, but he sensed that he would know when he found it. And that sense reached its peak about midmorning, after a brief sip of mulled wine, when Gil-galad suddenly felt the need to focus the gaze of the palantír on his dungeons. The dim light of the prison beneath his city caused him the need to concentrate all the more to see what lay in the darkness, but when the image finally came into clarity….

"Impossible," he whispered.

Seven elves. Three with black hair, three with red, and one with blond. At least a few of their faces seemed strangely familiar, as if he had seen them in his past. One appeared to be injured. Two, however, he recognized instantly as old enemies who had once upon a time brought two orphaned elflings into his home, or at least he believed he recognized them. But he was certain that they were dead, had been dead since the beginning of the age!

"Show me your right hand," the King muttered, eyes fixated on the tall, redheaded elf, now hunched uncomfortably over the black-haired elf sprawled below him. A murmur sounded near him, but he ignored it. "Show me if you are Maedhros, son of Fëanor."

In that moment the redhead turned so that he was no longer concealed by the shadows in the back of the cell, and the stump of his right arm became clearly visible through the palantír. Instantly, Gil-galad knew that he was looking upon the seven sons of Fëanor. He knew not how they came to be in his realm, but he had an inkling that it had something to do with the Vala of death. Possibly more than an inkling.

"My lord?"

Gil-galad broke his connection with the stone to glance behind him. Come to think of it, it did sound like someone spoke earlier.

"Captain Limdir," he greeted. The elf stood in the doorway to the small, circular room in which the palantír was housed, a look of smug righteousness on his face. He bowed and continued speaking.

"We found seven spies on the beach this morning, my lord. They have been confined to the dungeon and we await your command."

"Release them," came the immediate reply.

"My lord?"

"You heard me, Captain. Release them."

* * *

_Click_.

Maglor's eyes snapped to the door at the sound. There was a key in the lock.

"Wonderful," he sighed, and twisted around, hiding his wrists behind his back once again.

"Watch your shoulder, brother," Maedhros grunted.

"Sorry," the willowy elf whispered. There was really no benefit in having his wrists untied at this point, since there wasn't anything they could do anyway. Caranthir was still out, Curufin was absorbed in that strangely gurgly sniffling, one of the twins—probably Amrod—was keening softly, and Maedhros was draped uncomfortably on top of him, scowling furiously as he attempted to take over Curufin's usual role of tactician. How nice it would be if the guards were here to let them go this time, having seen that Maedhros spoke true— _Ha!_ Maglor bit off the thought before it could continue and shook his head. As if that would happen.

The door creaked open to reveal several guards, their movements uncertain. One reached into the cell while the others unlocked the entrance to the cell before them and, from the sound of it, the cell next to them as well.

"Up you get," one of them said, pulling the redhead to his feet. "The King has ordered your release, though he wishes to speak with you first."

Maglor may have made a small squeaking noise.

Maedhros glanced at him askew as the two of them squeezed out, then groaned as he straightened to his full height, a half-dozen joints making ominous cracking sounds as he towered over the suddenly apprehensive guards. Their expressions of suspicion only grew as they saw Maglor's now-unbound hands, but they remained silent and instead moved on to the other brothers' cells.

"Why would Gil-galad suddenly order us to be set free?" the eldest brother murmured, more to himself than to anyone else. To their left the hunters squirmed out of their own cell, then turned to have their wrists untied, but no one emerged from the cell across from them. Curufin's sour voice rang out.

"Must we separate this soon again?" he grumbled. "I do not wish to leave Moryo along...oaf that he is," he added to himself. The guard gave him a strange look as he sniffed yet again. "It would be unwise to abandon him in this state, especially if he awakens."

"Oh, no, do not worry for his health," the guard reassured him, smiling blandly. "The healers will tend to him while you meet with King Gil-galad."

"That is not what I said."

"He will be fine," Celegorm said impatiently, staggering with the two Ambarussas clinging to him. "Come, the others await."

With a sniff and a clipped nod, Curufin acquiesced to be led away with the rest of his brothers, leaving Caranthir alone in the dark dungeons of Mithlond.

Through the heavy wooden door, out through the corridor, and up the flights of stairs the brothers went, led on by the guards that had freed them, until they were met with an ornate set of double doors.

"He is currently occupied, but he will be with you momentarily," one of the guards said as she held the door open for the brothers.

* * *

In the dark halls of Mithlond's dungeons, a robed and hooded figure moved silently through the shadows, bearing a covered plate, a bowl of warm water, and a basket of bandages in his arms. His raiment was of midnight blue and hemmed with gold, and none questioned his presence—not even the guards, who held the doors open for him at his passing.

When he came to the door behind which Caranthir Fëanorion lay, he entered the cell and knelt beside the unconscious elf. The figure dropped the hood that had kept his identity hidden thus far, revealing a head of long dark hair adorned with a gold crown. Ereinion Gil-galad wasted no time, and quickly untied the elf's hands before he washed the injured knuckles with the water he had brought, which soon sloshed red with blood as the beds of scabs cracked. His hands had not the nimble fingers of a healer, and though he worked as gently as possible, more than once he caused Caranthir to moan softly in pain, or perhaps fear.

"Be at peace, son of Fëanor," the King soothed, running his hand over the elf's soft black hair in a comforting gesture. "You and your brothers are in safe hands."

At his touch the _ellon_ stilled, allowing Gil-galad to smear cool ointment onto his battered hands before wrapping them in the bandages. He could tell that some of the Fëanorian's fingers were broken and needed to be set, two on the right hand for certain, but for now he was hesitant to bring him to any of the healers. Master Iphandir, one of many elves who had been alive during the Fëanorians' reign of terror, would catch word of their arrival regardless of how carefully Gil-galad hid them and would not likely be so understanding of their presence.

No, Gil-galad decided that it was better that as few people as possible knew of their presence. So he just wrapped the broken fingers a bit tighter.

Now that Caranthir's wounds were dressed, Gil-galad rose and replaced the hood over his head, once again hiding from the guards. He gathered his things and prepared to depart, though not before setting a small scrap of parchment next to the covered plate of food he left in the cell.

_'Our sincerest apologies for sedating you, and we hope that your sleep was restful. There is food for you here, and more when you later join us.'_

The elven King hesitated, then ducked out of the cell and snapped off a partially burnt sliver from a nearby bracketed torch. He scribbled a brief addendum:

_'Rest assured; your brothers are fine.'_

"Bring him to me once he wakes," the King said to the guard at the door before he passed back into the shadows.

* * *

The hall they found themselves in was beautiful. The floor was made of white marble, and the pillars holding up the high ceiling were made of green stone inlaid with gold. Wide and colorful tapestries depicting all the great battles and feats of the Noldor adorned the walls, and in the very center of the room was a circular fire pit, wherein blazed a welcoming fire. The back of the large room was dominated by a dais, which held at least a dozen chairs arrayed on either side of an ornately designed throne. It was quite obviously Gil-galad's main audience chamber.

All was silent in the great hall, save for Curufin's constant sniffling.

"Are you certain you are well, brother?" queried Celegorm. "One would think you had turned mortal on us and taken ill."

"There is something in my nose," Curufin said in a voice that was...not quite his. It was strangely garbled, and almost gloopy-sounding. "Perhaps dust. I feel like sneezing, and yet not. It is most strange."

Maedhros raised his eyebrow at his brother's explanation. It certainly sounded bizarre, whatever it was, but he doubted it was of much concern. He turned back around. Where in Eru's name was Gil-galad?

_Flblfldllllbl_.

The brothers spun around to see the sallow-faced elf holding a hand up to his nose, astonished as it came away sticky and wet. His eyes went wide at the thick, yellowish fluid on his hand. "Brothers…" he mumbled. "There is...something coming out of my nose."

"Hm?" Celegorm quickly trotted over to examine his sibling's discovery. "Oh! I recall something similar happening to a man after I had bashed in his skull. Things came out of his nose then as well. Although I do believe the fluid was greyish in his case, not yellow..."

"Those were his brains, Turko!" Amras called, his eyes widening to rival Curufin's.

" _Aiya Elbereth_ , am I dying again already?!"

"Aaahhhhhhhhhh!"

"Ambarto, it's alright!"

Back near the door, the same she-elf that had opened the door for them and previously aimed her arrow at Maglor rolled her eyes at their panic. In all honesty she had no inclination to help the former prisoners whatsoever, considering the oddness of their situation and how the King had reacted...but then she figured it would also reflect poorly on her if the King should arrive to find his guests in such a state of distress. And so with a huff of irritation, she left the room to fetch a handkerchief.

Upon her return, the six elves were in no better a state.

"Are you certain, Curvo?"

"Of _course_ I'm certain! I feel as though my head is about to explode! And my chest…" _Sniff_. "...it feels heavy and tight...like there is something in there..."

The guard let out a poorly-disguised snort at the scene unfolding before her. The dark one stood with his head tilted back, a look of panic on his face as the blonde one peered into his nose. The other four stared with horrified curiosity at the slime covering the poor elf's hand, one of them babbling.

"Let me at him," she said flatly as she pushed the other elves aside. Before anyone could raise protest, she covered his nose with the handkerchief.

"Get off me!" Curufin bellowed, scrambling back. _Sniff_. "You won't get me as easily as you got my brother—"

" _You_ were the one who sedated Moryo?" Maedhros rounded on the elleth, his tall form even more imposing as he loomed down.

"No!" the guard snapped, resisting the urge to add _you dunderheads_ to the end of that. "This is to clear his nose!"

"You'll—take away the strange sneezing feeling?" Curufin glared at her warily.

"Yes, I _will_. See?" She held the handkerchief to her own nose, and when nothing happened the sallow elf reluctantly let her drape the cloth over his face. "Now blow."

"Excuse me?" Curufin scowled. "I can hardly breathe as it is! How am I meant to blow?"

"I said blow!"

Cowed, he whistled out through his mouth in an attempt at pleasing the intimidating she-elf, or at least getting her to leave him alone. But she was far from pleased.

"Out of your nose, you _auk_!"

The sallow-faced elf glowered, then blew forcefully through his nose, causing the most horrific gurgling-snorting sound to fill the otherwise lovely hall.

"Oh dear, now I'm feeling lightheaded…" Curufin trailed off, swaying in place before Maglor steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. But said action was almost instantly made futile once the ailing elf had the misfortune of seeing the handkerchief, now covered in even more of the yellowish slime which he still believed were his brains.

The poor elf fainted straightaway.

"Curvo!"

If the guard thought there had been panic before, what descended in that moment was sheer pandamonium. The feminine one with the dark hair instantly began trying to wake the unconscious elf, who was now awkwardly sprawled over the tiled floor, while one of the youngest redheads started yelling something about how she'd killed him and that he'd lost his brains. _That_ part she didn't have much of a hard time believing. The other young redhead was still shrieking, unnoticed by his brothers. The blond one, less concerned with the state of his brother, took the handkerchief from her hand and went about examining the yellow ooze that coated it.

"Interesting…" he muttered, mostly to himself. "I've always imagined elf brains to look different, not so… gross."

"Those aren't his brains!" the she-elf shouted over the sound of the brothers and their collective alarm. She looked towards the eldest elf, hoping that he would be more reasonable than the others, but was instead greeted by a figure that exuded darkness.

"What. Have. You. Done. To. My. Brother."

"You are all utterly daft!"

Just as she finished uttering those words, the door to the hall opened to reveal one very confused High King of the Noldor. No one, not even the guard seemed to take notice of him, and they all continued to shout at one another over the unconscious elf on the floor. He blinked a couple of times just to make sure the scene before him was actually there and not some horrible hallucination of his sleep-deprived mind. After a subtle pinch, he resigned himself to the truth.

"SILENCE!"

The booming echo of the King's voice through the hall caused the room to go still.

"Gaerthel," he said, turning to the she-elf, who had been about to shout at Amras yet again, "Would you mind explaining to me why there is an unconscious Fëanorion on the floor, and why his brother seems to be so interested in your handkerchief?"


	4. Chapter 3: A Gift from the Valar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sick elves, injured elves, squabbling elves, and above all, one very confused king.

* * *

"Ah—ahem...well, you see, my lord…" the flustered _elleth_ attempted. She gestured helplessly. "The one on the floor has...taken ill." She knew how ridiculous she sounded—elves were immortal beings, immune to disease and the ravages of time. And yet this one had somehow managed to get sick.

"How so?" Gil-galad prompted, crossing the room to kneel next to Maglor, who had resorted to punching his brother's arm in an attempt to wake him.

"I know not by what method, but he seems to have what the Edain* refer to as a 'cold,'" Gaerthel offered. "Something they get when they are exposed to a chill, or to others who have the illness. As for the reason he is currently sprawled across the floor…"

A loud moan interrupted her as Curufin blinked awake, shaking his head and spattering slime all over Maglor (who promptly punched him again, sobbing with relief).

"Ufugh…. Have you put my brains back in…?" he slurred.

The King let out a very suspicious-sounding cough.

"I do not think they ever left your head, my friend," Gil-galad said, doing his best to compose himself. "I must agree with Gaerthel—I think you have taken ill, and are not used to how your body is feeling."

Now it was Curufin's turn to look confused.

"I _knew_ it wasn't his brains!" shouted Celegorm as he threw down the slimy handkerchief. "Elf brains would never be such a sickly shade of yellow-green-whatever-that-is!"

"More red, I imagine," Maedhros chuckled, his previous dark aura gone. "There was no need to panic."

"Says the _ellon_ who wanted to kill me," Gaerthel muttered under her breath.

"So… he isn't dying?" Amrod questioned, quirking an eyebrow at the King.

"No," Gil-galad confirmed with a smile. "His head is only a bit muddled, I think. He will most likely be fine—most of the Edain who contract such an illness are well again within a few weeks."

"A few _weeks_?" Curufin squawked, sitting straight up and hitting Maglor's nose with his forehead on the way there. "How am I supposed to survive that long with my brains leaking out of my nose?"

"They aren't your brains, _auk_!" an exasperated Gaerthel snapped, forgetting that the King was even in the room. "It is only the slime your nose is making to get rid of the illness."

"That is quite enough, Gaerthel." Gil-galad's expression was stern as he pulled Curufin to his feet and handed him another handkerchief. "Perhaps you would like to see that our guests are brought something to eat? I am certain they are hungry, and it is nearly lunchtime."

A last loud _pffbbffflflflfllll_ filled the room. Although the guard clearly would rather have done otherwise, she gave a clipped nod and left, all the while muttering something about "males of every species" being "utterly useless".

* * *

Caranthir felt horrible, like he'd been kicked in the chest by a feisty mule and then trampled by all of its siblings. And his hands, his hands stung and ached, such a familiar pain that he knew that something had to be damaged. He clenched and unclenched them experimentally and guessed at some badly-bruised knuckles, nothing too difficult to fix.

If they needed fixing, that was. Below him the stones were cold, and when he opened his eyes he saw only more darkness.

_It was a dream,_ he reminded himself. _It was a dream. Here I am now, back in the Halls of Mandos…_

But as his vision cleared he could see the iron bars and clearly defined cells of a dungeon, and suddenly he had a much more coherent idea of what happened. He remembered fighting the guards above the cliff, and then there was his brother's strange unwillingness to help him. Not to mention the look he had given that one guard before he…

_Oh._

And Curufin had stood by and done nothing, hadn't even _tried_ to stop them. No doubt he would have some choice words for his little brother once he found him, and the rest of his siblings for that matter.

The elf pushed himself upright, swearing softly at the pain in his hands which, to his surprise, had been (rather poorly) bandaged by someone. He would fix that later.

He glanced around, gauging his situation. Two guards, a cell so small that even Turgon couldn't shit in it—not that his ego would have fit in it in the first place—and that unknown person who had done such a poor job on his knuckles. Presumably, that same someone had left a covered tray in his cell with him, a square of scribbled-on parchment on top.

_A sorry attempt at an excuse, likely,_ he snorted to himself. The moody elf lifted the tray's lid and saw that he had been left a plate of food. He gave a brief moment of thought to actually eating it, considering he had literally not eaten in centuries, but then decided against it. It was probably poisoned.

Instead, he leaned up against the wall of his cramped cell, waiting for his head to clear more before he made any attempt at escape.

* * *

"Well, now that that is settled, I suppose I should welcome you home," the King said with a half-smile as he strode to his throne and sat, brushing his robes out of the way with a practiced flick. "I never thought I would live to see the day when the seven sons of Fëanor would once again walk the shores of Middle Earth. But now that you are here, you should find some use for yourselves, should you not?"

"Aye," Maedhros nodded. His brow furrowed momentarily. "One of your captains mentioned earlier that you were on the eve of war. We would be glad to assist your efforts."

"That is true," Gil-galad confirmed. He swept his gaze over them, then glanced away, dark brows furrowed. "Tempted though I might be to name you as commanders over the host I am assembling, capable warriors that you are, I would not risk bringing such attention to you so quickly. One never knows of the grudges some may still hold against you. Eru knows I have mine."

Five hands moved, grasping for nonexistent weapons. Maedhros began, "And what will you—"

"But it is not with me that your final judgement rests," continued the King, raising a hand for silence. "If Lord Námo has returned you to us, than I can only trust he has done so with good reason. Though...there is one thing that I must know before we proceed further."

The King sat forward, fingers laced, seafoam eyes piercing.

"Are you still bound by the Oath?"

For a moment the only sound to be heard was that of the crackling fire in the center of the room and an occasional sniff as each brother present contemplated what was being asked of them.

"I must apologize," Maglor said, finally breaking the silence. "Of what oath would you be speaking?"

"What oath!?...I speak of _the_ Oath, which you swore with your father in Aman! The one wherein you vowed to retrieve at all costs the three silmarils which your father made, should any withhold them from you. Do you truly remember nothing of it?"

Again, he was met with blank stares.

"Surely you jest," Gil-galad pleaded, hoping to coax any answer, even the one he did not want, out of the six brothers before him. "You must remember at least _something_ of your past lives, do you not?"

"I…I remember that we did some terrible things," Celegorm offered, scrunching his face in thought. "But as to the reasons behind them, I am at a complete loss. I cannot speak for my brothers, but I recall nothing about any oath."

"Aye," Curufin agreed. He gingerly swabbed at his nose. "I know nothing of the oath you speak of. I recall coming to Middle Earth, and our many attacks on Angband… and Morgoth! He was our foe, was he not?" At the flurry of nods, the dark brother continued. "I remember living in Himlad with you," he said, pointing the handkerchief at Celegorm. "And after we were attacked by Morgoth's swine, we fled to Nargothrond with…with..."

"Who were you with, Curvo?" Maglor pressed.

Gil-galad, meanwhile, was dumbfounded. He was halfway tempted to retell their entire history to them—but then a small voice in the back of his skull whispered _not yet, not just yet_. Perhaps there were some things they simply were not meant to remember? Or—Eru forbid—Lord Námo had hidden those memories from them for some reason? Maybe that was why none of them could remember the Oath?

Still, if Curufin was thinking of who Gil-galad thought he was thinking of, it was a topic best left to the Fëanorion to recall.

"Celebrimbor!" Curufin suddenly shouted. "We fled with my son, Celebrimbor!"

"Ah yes, him," Celegorm sighed. "He's an odd one, Curvo, you must admit. Never had such a desire to fight as the rest of us. The _hên_ * wanted to be a jewel-smith, for Aulë's sake."

"Leave him be, Turko," Maedhros said with a wave of his hand. "Just because Luthien turned you down and your dog abandoned you"—"Don't you bring Huan into this!" the blond huntsman snapped—"doesn't mean you have to make fun of Curvo's son. I doubt you could have done better, regardless. And you forget that _Adar_ * was a jewel-smith as well, before any of us were even born."

"Yes, well, at least I _tried_ to find a wife!" Celegorm shot at the redheaded elf.

"Aye, by kidnapping her!"

Gil-galad leaned back in his seat and tried to block out the sounds of the bickering brothers. If this was what he had to deal with in exchange for the support of these legendary warriors, he wasn't sure he wanted it. What was Námo thinking!?

* * *

"What is going on here?"

Limdir's eyes blazed, his shoulders almost shaking with anger. He had set two guards in front ot the prisoner's cell, instructing them to retrieve their "guest" when he awoke. But now the two guards were slumped against the wall, one with a sizeable bruise ringing his neck, the other with a swollen lump on his head.

"H-he… he…" the first guard stuttered, trying to find the words for what had happened and rubbing at the goose egg on his head.

"You were meant to be watching him! Are all of my guards entirely useless!?"

* * *

The fury of the captain was too distant to reach the moody elf's ears, as Caranthir was busily sneaking about the dungeons by then. He had made short work of the two guards—Void, his cell door hadn't even been shut properly! What kind of imbeciles were these elves, to leave a prisoner's cell door not only unlocked, but completely open?

He had a plan, though one would not think it, what with his seemingly aimless wandering, glancing around corridors and peering into cells. The elf was bound to find either a way out or the armory, whichever came first, and he honestly didn't care which—though a benefit to finding the armory first was that he might acquire a weapon, the thought of which made him giddy with excitement. It would make dealing with any other guards so much easier. And as an added bonus, he could beat Curufin to a pulp once he found him again.

Ah yes, quite the excellent plan it was.

And there, mounted on the stone wall before him, was just what he needed. Well, not exactly what he needed, but the sign directing him toward the armory was definitely helpful. With one of his goals now in sight, he bounded down the corridor, ever mindful not to whack his hands on the walls in his urgency.

In no time at all he came upon the door so conspicuously labeled in Sindarin, indicating the presence of weapons inside. With a smooth push he eased the door silently open to reveal three guards polishing their armor. Caranthir closed his eyes briefly, willing centuries of experience to return to him, then let out a slow breath and slipped in. Not one of the guards noticed as he crept around them to the many weapon racks.

He was surprised to see that the racks were mostly empty, with only a few notched and dented blades left. Shoulders slumped, he turned to leave, only for something silver to catch his eye.

There, sitting on one of the many small anvils scattered through the armory, was a short-handled hammer. _Not exactly a weapon...but it will have to do._ He crept to the anvil and picked up his prize. It felt good in his hand: heavy, and yet well-balanced enough that he could really do some damage. He swung it experimentally and instantly regretted it.

_CRASH_.

There went a rack of broken spears, clattering to the floor. The elf jumped, his hammer falling to the floor with a _thunk_ ; his knuckles collided with a rack and he let out a yelp.

_Rhaich*. Rhaich!_

Instantly, three pairs of eyes turned in his direction.

"Who goes there?" a guard snarled.

The Fëanorion snatched up his improvised weapon and snapped into a fighting stance as the guards advanced on him, weapons drawn. He rolled his shoulders, feeling that long-forgotten thrill course through him again. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Your loss," he muttered.

* * *

"We did the best we could in that situation!" Maglor shouted over Celegorm's accusatory whining. "The rest of you were most definitely not around to help us!"

"You _killed_ their mother!" Curufin pointed out for the third time.

"All of us here know that there was no way that could be avoided," Maedhros interjected. "Elwing leapt into the sea and left the twins alone of her own choice! I think the blame rests with her, not us! Besides, at least I was there for them, and I wasn't even their father. You left Celebrimbor alone for most of his childhood!"

"We were defending our land!" retorted the sallow elf.

"My lord?"

A knock went unnoticed by all, and moments later Limdir cautiously stuck his head into Gil-galad's audience chamber. He was met not with civilized discussion, but rather six Fëanorions bickering over whether Curufin or Maedhros had been the worse father figure. He opened his mouth to reprimand him, then thought better of it and redirected his focus towards his liege.

"My lord?" The captain very respectfully entered, glancing around for the King, when the slumped-over figure on the throne caught his eye.

"My lord!" the captain exclaimed, hurrying toward him before he realized that the King held his head in his hands, most likely blocking out the din around him. Limdir skirted the quarrelling brothers to stand directly next to him, and tried addressing him again.

"King Gil-galad?"

This time, the King looked up blearily.

"Hm? Oh, Limdir, it's you." For a moment the King had a relieved look on his face, and the elvish captain cursed himself for the news he bore.

"There is something you...must know." Here he shuffled his feet a bit, trying not to look as uncomfortable as he felt. "The Fëanorion that was left in the dungeons…he…escaped, my lord."

Gil-galad paused for a moment to process what he had been told. "Escaped?"

"Yes, my lord."

The King's presence suddenly swelled, and Limdir was sharply reminded of why they all followed this _ellon_ without question.

"Explain," Gil-galad demanded, his expression far from amused.

Explain? What was there to explain? The Fëanorion was gone! That was all there was to it! He went to the cell, and the elf was no longer there. The only evidence he had ever been there in the first place was the blood on the floor and the injuries left on his guards.

"When I went to go check on him...his cell was empty, my lord, " Limdir began. "The guards we left to watch him were…incapacitated…during his escape. One was strangled and the other hit on the head. We have no idea where he is now." At a dark look from the King, the captain hurriedly added, "Neither injury is lasting, but they will not be able to serve for a fortnight."

Gil-galad sighed with resignation and defeat as several thoughts raced through his head. He would be leaving Mithlond, leading his army to war in the morning. This was the elf he was leaving in charge of the city while he was away (he had clearly made a poor choice in who he was leaving in charge). Two of his elves were incapacitated. And finally, there was a confused and injured Fëanorion wandering around his dungeons, likely on some sort of rampage.

This was why he never wanted to be king.

"My Lord!" exclaimed yet another voice from the doorway. The commanding tone got everyone's attention, even Gil-galad's, and every elf in the room turned to see Gaerthel enter with Caranthir in tow.

"Moryo! You're back!" Maglor shouted as he rushed forward to envelope his brother in a bone-crushing hug.

"Ribs," the battered elf grunted, but his complaint went unheeded as Maedhros hurried over and squeezed the both of them, arguments forgotten. Even Curufin joined the group hug that Maglor inadvertently started, though the visible portion of Caranthir's face glared at the sallow elf.

"Moryo—are you well—"

"—do you want biscuits—"

"—what happened to your face—"

"—you're stronger than I expected, _auk_ —"

" _What was that?_ "

But the mood was the lightest it had been in Ages, and even Caranthir's sulking eventually gave way. A ways off, the previously-bawling Amrod gazed at the cluster of his brothers as they laughed and embraced, a fleeting smile gracing his face as Caranthir poked Celegorm in the arm, just like he always did. Amras tilted his head towards his older twin, fondly ruffling his crimson hair.

"Ambarussa?" Celegorm called to them, beckoning for them to join the group.

Amras felt his twin's grip tighten and tilted his head down. "Do you want to…"

" _Ná_ *."

He was taken aback by the suddenness of Amrod's answer, but soon broke into a grin and pulled his twin upright with him, the Ambarussas making their way over to the waiting arms of their brothers.

"What happened to him?" Gil-galad stood on the dais with Limdir and Gaerthel, watching Caranthir wince in pain as the twins attached themselves to the mass of Fëanorion.

"He had to have done it to himself, somehow," Limdir mused. "Those guards didn't stand a chance against him…"

"Actually, from what Avornion told me, the three of them held up fairly well against him," Gaerthel snorted, then quickly coughed. "Excuse me, my lord. They, ah, caught him in the armory stealing a hammer, but he was unable to do much damage with it when the guards apprehended him, as he was injured. Avornion said something about his knuckles, I believe."

The King opened his mouth, then thought better of it.

"I heard the commotion while I was trying to find something for the others to eat, and decided to investigate. When I saw who they were fighting…"

"So, in essence…" Gil-galad trailed off.

"He had his arse handed to him."

"Ah."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Edain - the name that the elves gave to mankind  
> *hên - child  
> *Adar - father  
> *rhaich - literally, curses  
> *ná - Quenya for "yes"
> 
> You have no idea how tempted we were to write "come at me bro" when Caranthir started throwing around them fightin' words.


	5. Chapter 4: The Road East

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mike makes too many references for their own good, and Ping enables them.

* * *

"Imladris? Where on Eru's green earth is that?"

"I think it's somewhere near Khazad-dûm, Moryo," Celegorm said, looking at the map spread out on the table in front of them. "You remember, don't you? It was that city in the south that all the dwarves of the Blue Mountains always talked about…"

The seven Fëanorions were bustling about in the armory. Maedhros stood by Celegorm, examining the map, while the others tried to find suitable weapons and armor for the impending march east.

"But I thought that was a myth? Khazad-dûm, I mean." Curufin glanced over from the bow he was inspecting.

"Apparently not—it _is_ marked right there," Maedhros muttered as he tapped a red-inked point. "From what Gil-galad told me, it's become quite a prominent landmark since we…expired. Imladris is north of there."

"So...where we are going? Imladris?" Caranthir paced around the room, searching for arrows. He stooped to pick something up, then snorted and threw yet another snotty handkerchief into the growing pile. "Sounds like a rather inhospitable place. Curvo, throw your garbage away properly."

"We shall see when we get there, I suppose," Celegorm sighed. "I wonder if we will stay there for a while, or if we will join the army of Gil-galad's herald and move on immediately."

"What was his name again?" Caranthir queried.

"He didn't say," answered the eldest thoughtfully. Or perhaps Gil-galad had told him, and he simply forgot. There was quite a lot of information that was spewed at him, and none of the other six had bothered to stay behind once the King had mentioned arming them.

Most of the conversation had been about plans for the war. The King detailed them to Maedhros: the host from Mithlond would head east and join the armies from Imladris, Lothlórien, Greenwood, Khazad-dûm, and Gondor as they approached Mordor. From what the Fëanorion could gather, one of Morgoth's lieutenants had survived The War of Wrath and set up a fortress there, from which he had been wreaking havoc for the past age or so. And something about a ring.

"I hope we get to stay there for a while," Maglor muttered as he picked out a dagger. "I don't think elves would have settled there if it was inhospitable. Besides, even if it was I imagine they would have found some way to make it quite homely."

"Whatever the case, that is where we must go," Maedhros said. He lifted up a sword, testing its balance, before turning to his brothers. "The army leaves at dawn tomorrow. It would be wise to spar briefly and then spend the remainder of the evening resting for the journey. Gil-galad is providing horses for us, but"—he smiled wryly—"we all recall what days in the saddles can do to an elf."

* * *

The next morning saw the Sons of Fëanor preparing for departure along with the rest of Gil-galad's army. As they didn't have much (nothing) to pack, it didn't take long for them to complete said preparations.

"I wonder if Gil-galad will let us in the frontline?" Celegorm mused, shoving a blanket in his horse's saddle bags. The seven of them were currently lounging in a small copse of trees outside the city gates, waiting for everyone else to get their act together. They'd even retrieved their assigned horses from the stables before realizing that Gil-galad's "We leave at dawn" had meant something more like "We leave sometime before noon".

"It is unlikely." Maedhros ran a whetstone across his blade, the rasp punctuating his words. A pause as he sighted down the edge, carefully avoiding the leg of Curufin next to him, who was sound asleep and snoring quite loudly. "He said we should remain unknown and inconspicuous for a time, and I agree. Most likely he will scatter us throughout the main body of soldiers and have us use false names."

"Hm," Celegorm grunted, and continued shoving his blanket in.

A distance off, Amrod's attention was wholly devoted to the creature at the end of the reins he held in his hand. The grey mare stared back with large, intelligent eyes.

_I'm not afraid of you,_ he thought to her.

The mare nickered and tossed her mane. But he really wasn't, though! He was more, more...intimidated, that was right. It had been a very long time since he had been around horses, and he couldn't quite remember how to behave around them. They _were_ rather big, after all.

_Pityo…_ he began, turning toward his brother, but then he remembered—Pityo had gone off with Kano and Moryo to do some sparring, leaving him alone with Nelyo and Turko and a sleeping Curvo. Who were busy talking about the army and fighting and something like that. Except for Curvo, who was sleeping.

Amrod decided it would be best not to bother them. Instead he just continued staring at the horse. _What do I do with you?_ he asked. _Can I just let you go?_ The mare stared back with those smart eyes and he glared at her as he thought over his choices. The others had all tethered theirs to various posts that seemed to be made just for that purpose. Maybe he could tie her up?

He jumped as the horse snorted loudly, as if it was telling him to make up his mind already. In fact he was sure of it. Now that thought didn't help at all, not at all, what could he do with a big _and_ impatient horse? Not knowing what else to do, and feeling like a nervous wreck, he let go of the reins and sat down on the grass. When the horse didn't move, he crossed his arms and curled into himself. _Go off with the others, why won't you,_ he snapped at her, angrily forcing his tears back.

The mare did not wander over and join the other horses. She stayed where she was, right next to Amrod, her intelligent eyes questioning. Unbeknownst to the younger elf, his brothers had been watching him the whole time.

"Ambarto seems to be acting a bit stranger than usual, don't you think?" Maedhros asked the hunter next to him, who had finally finished packing his horse's bags.

"I find it hard to understand," Celegorm said quietly, moving towards his brother. "He used to love horses. Why now is he so timid around them? That little grey mare is not particularly frightening or wild. She honestly seems quite gentle. Ah, see? She hasn't even left his side even though he dropped her lead."

"Maybe she— _aahhh—_ bit him," came Curufin's snuffly voice, stifling a yawn. Neither of the older Fëanorions had noticed that he was awake, although the absence of thunderous snores should have been indicator enough. What they did notice, however, was the slimy trail of mucous smeared down the side of the ailing elf's face.

"You…have something on your face, Curvo," the eldest commented as Celegorm guffawed at his brother's appearance.

"What do you mean?" Curufin questioned as he wiped the side of his face with his sleeve. When it came away sticky and coated with slime, the two older brothers glimpsed a look of sheer disgust before Curufin scrabbled frantically through his pockets for a handkerchief to not only clean off the rest of his face, but now his tunic as well.

"Let me—ahem— _haaa—_ I will speak to Ambarto," Celegorm grinned. Leaving his own steed tied where it was, the hunter strode over to where his younger sibling sat cross-legged on the ground, still covering his head in an attempt to ignore the horse looming over him.

"You know she won't hurt you," Celegorm murmured, drawing his easily-startled younger brother's attention before he sat down next to him. "She is just trying to be friendly, as she has yet to wander off."

"Mm…" Amrod grunted. He leaned against his brother, drawing comfort from the contact, and spoke softly in Quenya. "I do not know what to do with it."

"I remember you used to love horses back in Aman," the blond continued, slipping back into his first language as well. "You had so many over the years. There was one, a chestnut stallion with a white blaze. You called him Arinder. You always told me he was one of your favorites. Do you remember him?

Amrod blinked a few times before nodding noncommittally. That name sounded vaguely familiar...

"We used to go on hunts together, and you would ride through the forest on his back, practically leagues ahead of us, he was so swift!"

The younger elf smiled. Now _that_ he remembered. The thunder of Arinder's hooves on packed earth, the blurry green of the foliage as it swished past. And the horns! The sweet notes of Oromë's hunting horns resounding throughout the valley…Amrod's smile broadened.

"I do remember that." He turned back to the little grey mare, who was still patiently standing nearby, and stretched out his hand to gently stroke her nose. She nuzzled into his hand, his previous offenses seemingly forgiven.

"Turko, if we have horses, where are we going?"

The blonde Fëanorion didn't respond for a bit, instead leaning into his younger brother a bit more, his stance a bit more protective. "We...are riding to war, Ambarussa."

"War?"

"I am afraid so." Celegorm turned to face the crimson-haired twin and ached deep in his chest at the confusion and hollowness in his brother's eyes. "There is darkness gathering in the east, and we must put a stop to it...it is but one of Morgoth's servants, though; we have fought much tougher foes in our past life. There is nothing to fear."

"But I do not want to kill anymore, Turko," Amrod whispered. He lifted a shaking hand, gazed at it blankly, a shudder running through him. "I do not want to fight. Even i-if they are evil. I do not, I cannot—"

"It is only this one more fight, though!" the blonde interrupted. "Once Sauron is vanquished, there will be no more darkness! There will be peace throughout Arda when this is over, and it will be like the old days, back in Aman. Ambarto, this I promise you, I promise."

The once-again distressed twin did not reply, instead clinging tighter to Celegorm as the good-natured mare nuzzled his shoulder.

It took quite a bit of work and some slight acrobatics, but eventually Curufin had the snot cleaned from his tunic as well as his face. He scowled at the handkerchief, about to crumple it and toss it away, when a clatter of footsteps announced Maglor, Caranthir, and Amras's return. But they did not return alone.

"Maedhros, son of Fëanor." The words were spat out, the deep voice taut with fire. "It has been quite a while."

All eyes turned to the imposing figure who followed the three brothers into the little copse. He was tall, almost as tall as Maedhros, and his silvery hair shone in the sunlight like mithril. His features were angular, and his eyes were grey as the sea in a raging storm. But the most striking feature he bore was a short and well-kept beard, in the same shade of silver as his hair. Even after an Age it was difficult to forget him.

"Lord Círdan," Maedhros greeted as he inclined his head.

"I come bearing orders from the King," the shipwright said flatly, but his storm-grey eyes betrayed his rage. And of course, none of them could really blame him; it wasn't as if the entire region of Beleriand could be re-summoned like the Halls of Mandos.

The bearded elf held out a scroll to the eldest Fëanorion, which Maedhros took.

"You are to ride ahead to Imladris, apart from the main host, and give warning to our allies of our arrival," the shipwright continued. "The details are laid out in writing."

A pause as he gazed about him, and his thin lips curled. "Try not to let your bloodlust get the best of you."

With that, he turned away and disappeared back through the gates of Mithlond.

"Do you think he has something... _against_ us?" Maglor asked, his attempt at a scowl marred by guilt.

"I would think so," Maedhros answered as he flicked the scroll open. "Middle Earth was relatively peaceful until our family showed up."

"He can go kiss an Orc for all I care," Caranthir grumbled as he untied his bay stallion. "I say we get out of here. The sooner we're out in the wilderness and away from these horrid Teleri, the happier I'll be."

"Oh come now, they aren't that bad!" Celegorm countered. "Just because they killed us doesn't mean they're evil. To be entirely honest...we kind of deserved it."

"Ha! Let's see," Maedhros said, putting aside the scroll and counting off with his hand. "We stole their ships, we killed their women and children, we defiled their settlements, we burned their ships after we stole them…" He paused, torn between continuing and running out of fingers.

"Alright, I get it, we were jambags," Caranthir sighed in resignation. "Could we please just leave now?"

"Fine," the eldest said, tucking the scroll into his belt. "Everyone saddle up, then, and we'll be off."

* * *

Their routines were much the same as when they had traveled before. At dawn, Maedhros would shake everyone awake (and dodge Caranthir's boot in the process), while Maglor prepared breakfast for the seven of them. Of course, he was a tad miffed that he had no access to an oven, but the pancakes he made were far better than the stale biscuits Gil-galad's people had packed for them. The muffins they would just have to wait for.

On the second day they rode through the greenest, most beautiful land any of them had ever seen. The hills were blanketed in the softest grass, reminiscent of the plains of Aman. Brooks gurgled merrily throughout, and flowers of every shape and color greeted them as they passed. The trees there were old but healthy, and bore fruit sweeter than Maglor's cookies.

"I think it would be good to settle here," commented Amras from where he rode next to his twin.

"Oh?" answered his blond brother. "I do not think I would much like it, pretty though it is. There isn't enough game about—not enough trees."

"You could always plant some," Amras shrugged.

As the days passed, the terrain they crossed grew less hospitable. Gone were the rolling green hills, instead replaced by dense forests that felt old even to Maedhros. It seemed as if their branches purposefully moved to block the sun or bar their path.

"What do you make of this forest, Turko?" Caranthir brushed aside yet another bough. As he let go, it swatted Maglor in the face.

"It is eerie," the hunter replied, keeping his voice low and punching a squawking Maglor to be quiet. "The trees here are hostile. I suggest we keep moving through the night."

A number of his brothers outwardly groaned, but a hard look from Maedhros silenced them.

"I agree," Maedhros said as he urged his horse to quicken his pace. "I do not trust these trees. They are too much alive for my liking."

Through the increasing darkness they traveled, never stopping. The only sounds were the thud of hooves on dirt, the swish of branches as they were brushed out of the way, and Curufin's constant sniffling. Until they weren't.

Maglor's well-trained ears were the first to perk up at the gentle melody that floated through the otherwise stagnant air of the suffocating forest. It was haunting, to say the least, like the echo of a trickle of water in a cave. But it was... _brighter_ than that, clear amongst the murk, brushing aside the chill that had settled.

"Do you hear that?" Maedhros whispered. Maglor stopped his mare, his head tilting in an attempt to locate the source.

"Is that"— _sniff—_ "music?" Curufin muttered, bewildered. "Who would be singing in such an awful place as this? Who would _want_ to sing?"

"I do not know," Maglor answered. "But there are two voices, a man and a woman. Perhaps there are other elves here?"

"I think we should leave," Celegorm said, his face twisted in alarm. "Right now. There is power in that song, and you remember what happened with Finrod and Sauron..."

That comment was all it took for all seven to spur their horses to an all-out gallop. It wasn't long before the sunrise greeted them as they emerged on the eastern edge of the forest, and all of them sighed with relief.

The lands they travelled after that were largely empty hills covered in sparse grasses and dotted with dark boulders. But the travelling was easier now that they no longer had the trees to hinder their progress, and soon the foothills grew steeper and rockier. In the distance, one hill stood apart, a fortified citadel atop it with its dark tower stabbing the sky.

"What is place that?" Caranthir asked, suspiciously inspecting its design. "I may be wrong, but the outpost is not of Elvish make."

"Amon Sûl," Celegorm answered. He tapped the map in his belt. "It is a fortress of Men, belonging to one of our new allies—Elendil, the King of Arnor and Gondor, I believe."

"We have no reason to stop here," Maedhros said. "It is too early in the day for a rest, and the citadel should be largely empty anyway. From what Gil-galad's orders said, Elendil's forces should already be gathered at Imladris."

For a time they rode again in silence, until the second youngest among them spoke.

"I do not like this place, Ambarussa," Amrod muttered in Quenya, his voice so soft that only his twin could hear.

"Why? What is it?" Amras replied in kind.

"It fills me with a sense of...foreboding." His grey eyes darted anxiously about. "I think we should keep going."

The younger of the two nodded as they urged their mares to speed up until they were riding in the front of the group, just behind Maedhros. Luckily the redhead caught on to his younger brother's discomfort, and in no time they were leaving Amon Sûl behind in the distance.

The next day, after crossing a river labeled on the map as the Hoarwell, they found themselves back in a forest. This one seemed far less hostile than the first they had passed. Birds sang cheerfully in the sunlight. Maglor found himself whistling along with them, devising harmonies of his own, which earned him a few sour looks from Curufin and Caranthir. Despite their own musical prowess, they could have never even hoped to match his sweet voice.

At night, however, it was decidedly less pleasant. The howling of wolves woke Amrod, and Amras soon found himself awake and comforting his twin. A ways off, Maglor kept watch.

Suddenly, a shriek pierced the air.

In an instant, all seven brothers were awake, their weapons snatched in their hands.

"Kano, what was that?" Maedhros hissed.

"I believe that was a scream," Maglor muttered. He jerked his head to the right, indicating the cry's origin.

"Ambarto, we can manage, stay here and rest," Maedhros said kindly. "Curvo, stay here with Ambarto and guard the camp." The rest followed him into the forest.

For an instant Curufin almost argued, before he realized that his sniffles would probably give away their position to whatever hostile creature they faced. With a grumbled curse he settled down next to his younger brother to watch their belongings.

_Sniff._

Meanwhile, Maedhros led the way through the undergrowth, making barely a sound as they moved beneath the trees. They kept to the direction Maglor had indicated, and caught sight of a faint light in the distance; a campfire in a clearing. Wordlessly they surrounded the clearing, weapons drawn, and five pairs of eyes widened at what they saw before them.

Two mountain trolls, each at least a few feet taller than Maedhros, stood by a roaring campfire. They were arguing over something, periodically gesturing toward a figure bound and gagged nearby.

"Ye can't just stick it in the pot!" one shouted. "Ye have to shave it first, otherwise we'll be pickin' elf hair outta our teeth for days!"

"Fine, fine," the other grumbled as he picked up trussed up elf by his long black braid. With a careless swing the troll sliced off the black locks. Had the elf's mouth not been stuffed with old rags, he would have screamed again. Caranthir nearly gagged as he noticed a good chunk of the elf's scalp come away with the discarded hair.

"That good enough?" the second troll grunted as he dangled the now badly shorn elf by his legs.

"Git his clothes off too, they'll make the stew taste funny."

Maedhros nodded sharply, and the Sons of Fëanor stormed into the clearing.

Celegorm fired an arrow into the throat of the troll holding their captive, and the beast toppled with a gurgled screech. He tsked in irritation.

"Missed the jugular," he complained.

"Stop whining, your aim's still impeccable," Caranthir shot back as he sprang forward.

"I blame the bow," Celegorm grumbled.

Caranthir rolled his eyes but deftly caught the bound elf as he was dropped, letting go of his own sword as he rushed forward. It was probably an unwise move, but he wouldn't see this poor _ellon_ suffer anymore than he already had.

Maedhros and Amras made short work of the other troll, their swords flashing in the firelight. The eldest darted elegantly behind the lumbering troll, his sword gouging deep and bloody wounds.

"Gyah!" the troll bellowed, turning its beady eyes on the redheaded elf.

"Pityo, now!" Maedhros roared.

The younger gritted his teeth. With a running leap he sprang feet-first against a tree trunk, then nimbly propelled himself atop the troll's head to sink his blade into its neck.

"Hey, watch it!" Caranthir shouted as the newly-headless corpse of the beast fell rather close to where he stood, swiftly tugging the _ellon_ out of the way.

Maglor made straight for the bound elf. "Hold still," the musician warned in Sindarin as he used his dagger to cut the ropes binding his hands and feet. Caranthir just as deftly untied the gag.

The once dark-haired elf gasped for air and sobbed in relief. "Thank you, thank you," he rasped, and took a few more deep gulps of air.

"We would be remiss to not help," Celegorm said. "Have you a name?"

"Erestor. My name is Erestor," he said, absently wiping a trickle of blood from his face. "I am from Imladris."

The brothers glanced at each other, and Maedhros grinned. "You are in luck, then! We too are headed there. Would you care to join our party?"

Erestor examined them for a moment, eyes searching, and the brothers knew that he was no normal elf from the experienced sweep of his gaze.

"You are not of this land?" He nodded at their weapons. "I have not seen such fighting styles as yours before."

"I have not seen a defenseless elf before," Maedhros countered. Green met blue in a brief clash before the other elf smiled.

"Aye, I suppose it appears strange." He wiped at the trickle again and winced at the sound of Celegorm retrieving his arrow from the troll's throat.

"Will you not come with us?" Caranthir repeated. "Your wounds need treating, and we must needs rest for journeying tomorrow."

"Please," Erestor replied, nodding his now mostly bald head. "I should not have set out alone in the first place, I think. And"—he looked them over again—"I do not yet know your names."

A brief moment, then Maedhros said, "I am—Amlug, son of Aew, and these are my brothers."

The elf looked blankly at him.

"Come on then, Erestor," Maglor said with false cheer as he offered a hand to help him up. "There are still a few hours before dawn, and I think we have some food left over from supper, if you are hungry."

Caranthir, Maedhros, and Amras stayed behind to put out the troll's cooking fire while Maglor, Erestor, and Celegorm went ahead to their camp. Upon their arrival, Curufin leapt to his feet.

"Where were you? I was worried sick! I could hear the fighting from here, what happened? Is anyone hurt?" _Sniff._ "Where are the others? Where are Nelyo and Pityo? Moryo? Tell me they are alive!"

"Curvo, calm down!" the blond hunter barked, grabbing his brother by the shoulders. "They are fine, they've just stayed to put out the trolls' fire, and _please_ do not get any sicker. Now go and comfort Ambarto, you've upset him again."

Amrod was once again crying, though whether it was the thought that his brothers might be hurt or the sight of Erestor's bloodied scalp that did it was anyone's guess.

"Come, sit by me." Celegorm beckoned to Erestor as he dug through his bag. "I have not much in way of supplies, but the wound on your head must needs be treated."

Erestor paled a bit, only just noticing the blood caking his hands.

"Is it...bad?" he asked.

"Nothing a good hat couldn't fix," Celegorm said cheerfully, and proceeded to clean and bandage the wound (unaware of Erestor's horrified glance).

"Here," Maglor said as he held out a hot plate of stew and a hooded cloak. "The weather is a bit warm to wear this, but it has a hood. That way you won't have to walk through Imladris looking like a poorly shorn lamb."

" _Hannon le_ ," Erestor murmured, inclining his head, and dug into the food.

"How far is it to Imladris?" Celegorm asked.

"Less than a day on horseback," came Erestor's reply. Hot food and his earlier adrenaline rush were taking their toll as he sat back, eyelids heavy. "I can...guide you if you wish. It can be difficult to find...if you do not know the way."

"Your assistance would be very welcome," Maedhros said as he entered the camp, followed by Caranthir and Amras. "Everyone get some sleep if you can. You too, Kano. I'll keep watch for the rest of the night."

As everyone else settled down to sleep, with Erestor nestled in a bedroll borrowed from Maedhros, the eldest Fëanorian let his thoughts wander, lulled by the crickets' chirping and the fire's crackles.

He was exhausted. Not in the way that his snoring brothers around him were, but it was a fatigue just as real…. He lifted his hand. This hand, which had wielded a sword with unerring deadly accuracy without hardly a thought from him. Pure instinct had driven his actions earlier, instinct driven into him by centuries of _killing_ , of murder pure and simple.

He was tired of fighting, tired of the violence. He had always been his father's little fighter, and in his youth that was something he took pride in. Finwë, his grandfather, had been the diplomat. Curufinwë, his father, had been the craftsman. He, Nelyafinwë, was the warrior. That was always just how it had been, but with the passing of the years he was drained. He wished it weren't so, but it seemed as if Middle Earth would always have need for him and his kind.

* * *

The next morning, Maedhros woke everyone as usual, and that included Erestor. And he thought Caranthir had been hard to wake…

But the poor _ellon_ couldn't really be blamed. After all, he had almost been eaten the night before.

He rode with Maedhros on his sturdy horse, and true to his word guided them along the road to Imladris. As much as the eldest Fëanorion hated to admit, he would have missed the well-hidden track that branched off the main road without Erestor's help.

Soon they came to a river. And again, had they not had Erestor with them, they likely would have turned back, thinking they had gone the wrong direction. But he pointed out a place where the water ran not so deep, and their horses could walk across.

After that the path wound up into the steeper foothills, though they could still hear the sound of the river nearby. Eventually the packed earth beneath them turned to cobbles, and after that ornate paving stones, the trees gracefully curved as they passed.

Erestor raised the hood, blue eyes searching the trees as if he was expecting to see something. Or perhaps someone?

The sound of the river swelled to a roar as they travelled, and with a flourish the trees before them parted to reveal a magnificent city. The gleaming white spires arched from the surrounding valley as if they had grown alongside the trees, and the silver of the now-waterfall sparkled as it plunged to the valley floor.

The brothers rode in awestruck silence as they followed the path onto a narrow bridge, stopping in a round stone courtyard. The only other people they could see were two guards, stationed on either side of a staircase leading up to the rest of the city.

Captivated by the view the of the valley, none but Erestor noticed the approach of another. But he did not even raise his head, ashamed of his current appearance. Not only was he now missing his previously luscious black curls, but now clinging to Maedhros's back he looked no bigger than an elfling.

" _Mae govannen_. Welcome to Imladris," the newcomer called, and the Fëanorions turned to see an elf standing at the top of the staircase. He was tall, with hair the color of a raven's feathers, straight and long. His face was noble, and his grey eyes spoke of wisdom gathered over many years. The circlet on his high brow marked him as someone of importance.

Maglor stared. Something about this elf was familiar, very familiar…. Glancing over at Maedhros, the musician could tell that the same thoughts were running through his brother's head. The newcomer gave no indication that he noticed.

"My name is Elrond Peredhel..." he continued, a small smile spreading over his previously solemn face.

The two eldest sons of Fëanor blanched.

"...and I am the master of this valley."

Maglor nearly fainted.

"I've been expecting you."

Maedhros may have made a small noise.


	6. Chapter 5: Cat and Mouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is an awkward family dinner, and Fëanor is the Grinch.

* * *

 

Maedhros spent several seconds grasping for words. What could he say in such a situation? He now knew what had become of at least one of his fosterlings from his previous life. Lord of Imladris, that was quite a title…

"This is Amlug, son of Aew," Erestor said, poking his head around Maedhros's body. Apparently no one else had noticed the silence that had fallen over the group, as several Fëanorions blinked in surprise. "And these are his brothers."

Elrond struggled to keep a straight face.

"Amlug, son of Aew, you say?" the Lord of Imladris said, raising an eyebrow. "And what brings you and your brothers to Imladris, Amlug, son of Aew?"

Finally Celegorm spoke, as neither Maedhros nor Maglor had yet found their voice.

"We came at the order of King Gil-galad," the blond hunter stated. "To give forewarning to his herald of his army's arrival. They are likely a little more than a day behind us."

"Very well, then," Elrond nodded, his gaze never leaving the two eldest brothers. "I will show you a place where you can rest for the night. The grooms will see to your horses."

He waited patiently while the brothers dismounted and gathered their belongings. However, the sight of the still-hooded Erestor, his stance unusually tense, caught his attention, and he beckoned the Chief Advisor over. Erestor haltingly climbed the steps and stood before him with his head bowed.

"It is good to see you back and unharmed," the Lord of Imladris said softly. "But, I must ask...why do you wear a hood?"

"I...was captured, my lord," the _ellon_ replied. At the sudden fury in Elrond's eyes he hastily continued. "By trolls...it was by fault of my own negligence. They would have supped on my flesh had not these folk intervened."

"I see...you must exercise more caution, my friend." Elrond frowned. "But that does not explain why you hide your face."

Erestor shifted, cheeks burning. If there was one person he did not want learning of his affliction, it was his employer. And then an overwhelming sense of horror dawned on him as he realized who else was now in Rivendell...

"Erestor!"

All heads turned just in time to see a flash of gold and a flurry of silken robes streak through the courtyard and up the steps to where Elrond and his advisor stood. The long-limbed form of an elf materialized next to Erestor and proceeded to envelop the shorter elf, almost knocking the both of them over. Down in the courtyard, Caranthir hauled Curufin to his feet, the latter having been bowled over by the stranger.

"It...is good...to see you too," Erestor gasped. "Ribs…"

"I missed you!" the taller elf said happily.

"Might you let him breathe?" Elrond suggested from where he stood, safely off to the side.

"Ope," the tall elf said, and instead held Erestor out at a cautious arm's length, examining him. "Where have you been all this time? Are you hurt?" He paused as the hood caught his eye, and scowled. "Why are you hiding beneath such a hideous cloak?"

Maglor snorted.

"Really, it's nothing—stop—" Erestor protested. The stranger threw back the hood, revealing the advisor's now hairless and poorly bandaged head. Silence once again descended over the group, until the now-cherry-faced Erestor spoke in a very small voice.

"...they tried to shave me."

Instantly he was re-enveloped in the blond elf's arms, and this time the taller elf was determined that the advisor would not escape.

"Why on earth did you ever leave? What possessed you to go alone?" He paused to pick at the makeshift bandages on Erestor's head with a pout. "I'm never leaving you alone ever again."

"I think you would get rather bored rather quickly if you did that." Erestor swatted the elf's hand away from his sore head. "Imagine all the council meetings you'd have to sit through."

"Erestor?" interrupted the Lord of Imladris. "Once Glorfindel releases you I think it would be a good idea for you to have your head examined. Whatever wounds you sustained have begun to bleed through those bandages."

"Of course, my lord," came the shorter elf's quick reply as he somehow wriggled out of Glorfindel's iron grip. "Allow me to get cleaned up first, and then I will have it seen to…"

Before Erestor had even taken two steps, Glorfindel was there, scooping the advisor up in his arms and proceeding to tote him inside.

"What are…Glorfindel!" the advisor gasped. "Put me down this instant, you insufferable oaf!"

"No. I refuse," the blond _ellon_ said cheerfully.

"I may have gotten myself into a bit of a scrape, but I am _perfectly_ capable of walking..."

Elrond sighed as the sounds of their bickering faded.

"My…apologies…about those two," he began. "Come, I am remiss in ignoring my guests for so long. If you will follow me."

"You called him Glorfindel," Amras said, his brow knit in confusion as he and his brothers climbed the steps towards the main city. "Is he named after the elf who slew the Balrog at the fall of Gondolin?"

"Not named. He is one and the same." Elrond paused, and chose his next words carefully. "The Valar allowed him to return to Middle Earth, and he has been living here in Imladris for the past few centuries."

Maglor and Maedhros paled even more.

They all followed the Lord of Imladris into a large and well-kept building. They were surprised to find themselves in a large hall, ornate enough to rival Gil-galad's audience chamber and with a similar circular fire pit in the center. The ceiling was painted to look like the evening sky, with each constellation rendered in such a way that it was quite easy to forget that it was but a painting.

There were several elves gathered within, some of whom were congregated around a map-strewn table. Elrond led the brothers past them and down a side passage lined with identical doors; from a pouch at his side he procured a key and unlocked the fourth one on the right.

Inside was a spacious room that contained seven simple but plush beds, a merrily-crackling hearth, and a few chairs and a table. The walls were blushed with creamy rose, and there were tapestries hung about depicting events of the First Age.

"As I said, we've been expecting you," Elrond stated when the brothers gave him simultaneous looks of disbelief.

"This is...goodness." Celegorm glanced at the others, who gaped about, and turned to Elrond, bowing deeply. "We much appreciate your hospitality."

The Fëanorions moved about the room cautiously, unused to being welcome since...ever. Eventually, Curufin set his pack down on the floor next to one of the beds and promptly curled upon it and fell asleep, a gurgling snore soon breaking the silence. The others followed his lead and set their own packs down, heading for the seats by the hearth.

"Amlug," Elrond called before Maedhros could sit down. "I would speak with you and…"—he had almost referred to Maglor as Aew—"the second oldest among you."

Maedhros flinched, mouth open as though he were about to say something. Eventually Caranthir elbowed him in the ribs, and he closed his mouth, straightening. He glanced at Maglor, who nodded, and they both followed Elrond out.

The trio made their wordless way back out into the main hall, down another corridor, and up a flight of stairs before arriving at an ornately carved wooden door. Maglor cleared his throat as the two Sons of Fëanor were ushered into the room, about to speak, but a glare from his older brother silenced him.

"My study," Elrond said briefly, and waved his hand toward a cluster of chairs near a window, two of which were soon occupied by Maedhros and Maglor. A moment of silence as the youngest _ellon_ glanced down the hall; then he entered the room as well.

"It is strange," the Lord of Imladris began as he shut and locked the door behind him, "that the King should send so many to announce his arrival, especially when we are already expecting him."

Elrond took a seat across from both of them, his gaze scrutinizing, and Maedhros knew that the game was up...but he would still try.

"I would imagine it may have had something to do with our familial situation," the eldest Fëanorion said lightly. "Several of us could not bear to be parted from the rest, and so we were all sent together."

"Is that so? The seven of you must be very close then."

"Quite," Maedhros ground out.

"I remember being very close to my brother," Elrond said thoughtfully. "That is, while he was still alive."

Maglor felt his heart drop when he processed what had just been said. Maedhros carefully kept his face neutral, despite the sudden despondency he felt inside, but couldn't help the tightening of his brow and the downward tick of his lips.

"I am sorry to hear that," the red-haired elf said.

Elrond sighed, a shadow passing over his eyes. "The pain has grown less with time, though I fear it may never fade completely."

"It never does," Maglor blurted out. A glare from the taller elf had him stumbling to correct himself. "I have lost many…close comrades…who were as brothers to me."

Silence hung in the air for a time. Maedhros fought to keep from burying his head in his hand at Maglor's careless words.

"Enough of these sorrowful topics," Elrond said finally, rising to pour three glasses of wine. Both brothers accepted the offered glasses as the Lord of Imladris sat down again. This time he looked towards Maglor. "You have a very sweet voice. Are you a musician?"

"I…ah…" Maglor trailed off, his pointed ears burning bright red. It had literally been over a thousand years since someone had complimented his voice, and it didn't help that the one doing it was the one he had helped raise. He looked to Maedhros; when the elder gave a tiny nod, he continued.

"Y-yes…I, I play the harp as well as sing..."

"Intriguing," Elrond commented as he examined his wine, apparently absorbed in it. Almost as an afterthought he added, "I cannot say I have much talent for music, although my foster father did try to teach me to play the harp in my youth."

Maglor nearly laughed aloud, recalling the many hours he had spent with a young Elrond, trying over and over again to teach him his musical notes. Always those evenings would end with the frustrated young half-elf giving up, and Maglor playing some ballad or dance tune on his harp to entertain the twins before bedtime.

But he stopped himself before he had done more than smile broadly.

Silence descended again as Elrond waited for a reaction from the redhead in front of him. When none came, the dark-haired elf lord continued his questioning.

"I am curious about your family. Seven children is quite a lot, and not so common among the Eldar. I imagine your childhood was quite eventful, with seven elflings in the house?"

"Not really," Maglor mused. "We had years enough between each of us that really there were no more than four at a time, and the older ones always helped watch the little ones. By far the most troublesome one was our cousin Tur- _ow!_ "

Maedhros kicked him to keep him from revealing more. Elrond only raised an elegant eyebrow in response before resuming.

"And what of your parents?"

Both sons of Fëanor were silent. Now _that_ was a topic that neither of them wished to touch with even a thirty-nine-and-a-half-foot polearm.

"Our father was…not terribly involved in our lives," Maglor said cautiously. "He was so often absorbed in his work that it was left up to our mother and we older sons to take care of the household. We never wanted for anything, though. If there was something we needed, he would provide for us, but aside from that we had little personal interaction with him. He was not a very...amiable soul."

"I see." Elrond leaned forward, gaining momentum. "What of—"

"What has this become, some sort of interrogation?" Maedhros spat.

"I would happily offer some of my own history, but I fear I would bore you with information that you already know, Maedhros Fëanorion," Elrond said evenly.

_Shit._

"That is not my name," the redhead scowled.

"Do not lie to me, Son of Fëanor," the elf lord snapped back. "I know when you are lying to me. I know who you are, and I know where you have come from."

"Then why bother with the questioning?" Maedhros growled, rising from his seat as his temper flared. "Why not come out and say it?"

"I could ask the same of you." Elrond raised an eyebrow. "Why hide your identity from one who knows you almost as well as you know yourselves? Do not tell me that you thought me and my brother ignorant all those years?"

Maglor hung his head, remembering the many arguments that the two brothers had had, late at night when they thought the two elflings living with them were asleep. Obviously, they hadn't been asleep, and they had been listening. He wondered then what else they had tried to keep hidden from them and failed.

Maedhros sighed and slumped back into his seat, defeated. "So what now?"

"Welcome home."

The Fëanorions looked at him, shocked, but he only smiled.

"I imagine it has been many years since you had a place to call home," the Lord said softly. "And I cannot think that you have been treated well upon your return…"

He moved from his seat and bowed before them. "Maedhros, Maglor. Despite what happened to my mother and father, despite all of the crimes you have committed, I will never forget the kindness that the both of you showed my brother and I, and I am certain that Elros would feel the same. So long as I live, you and your kin will always be welcome in the Last Homely House East of the Sea."

Maedhros looked at the elf lord, pride and an indescribable feeling of peace coursing through him. Their fosterling had certainly grown up over the past few millennia, and looking over at his brother he could tell that Maglor was similarly touched.

"The Last Homely House East of the Sea, you say," Maedhros said instead. "Elrond, your naming sense has always been...interesting."

Elrond turned slightly red. "I wanted to make it welcoming," he grumbled.

"Yes, much as you wanted Maedhros to be a fire-breathing ' _amlug_ ' and I to be a sweet-voiced ' _aew_ '," Maglor chuckled, catching on.

"Please stop." Elrond was very definitely red now.

Maedhros only smiled and held out his hand to his once fosterling.

" _Hannon le_ ," he said quietly.

"You are most welcome," Elrond responded. He stood. "Will you and your brothers dine with us tonight?"

* * *

Luckily, it was a rather small occasion. Elrond agreed that the seven of them should remain unknown for as long as possible, and so they had dinner in a small room away from the great hall where the majority of the household would be eating.

Though Maglor's camp-cooking was still delicious, it grew tiresome after days, and the sons of Fëanor were happy to sit at a real table with real food. It was quiet, considering the only one to speak since Elrond had returned to the remaining brothers with Maedhros and Maglor had been the elf lord himself. And that was only to call them to dinner.

For a time, the only sound was that of the elves eating (which is more disgusting than one might think) and the sickly elf's occasional sniffing.

"So you know Maedhros and Maglor?" Curufin finally asked, breaking the awkward silence.

Elrond looked up from his venison, smiling at the dark _ellon_ who had spoken.

"Yes, your brothers helped raise me and my own brother after my parents left."

"Oh," he replied, suddenly deep in thought. _Sniff._ Who was this elf? Neither of his older brothers had ever mentioned raising an elfling, not in all of their long years spent in Mandos. Then again, it had taken quite a while for either of them to say anything after their deaths. _Sniff_. Especially Maglor.

He hadn't noticed that he had been staring at the two oldest, who sat to Elrond's right, until Maglor cleared his throat. Sheepishly, he went back to picking at his dumplings.

"Just eat it, Curvo," Celegorm whispered, elbowing his younger brother. "It's impolite to pick."

"Sorry." _Sniff._ Curufin took a bite, but continued to just push his food around his plate. He wasn't feeling hungry.

His host didn't fail to notice his lack of appetite.

"Are the dumplings not to your liking, Curufin?" Elrond asked with a tilt of his head. "I am sure there is something else in the kitchen that would please you better, if you wish."

"Ah? Oh, it's fine"— _sniff_ —"I am not very hungry tonight," he replied. He really didn't want to mention the reason food had lost its appeal. It probably had something to do with the stuff dripping out his nose; ever since it started, everything he ate tasted like warg vomit. That and he couldn't breathe, which made swallowing difficult.

Elrond's eyes narrowed as he pondered the Fëanorion and his strange behavior. He would have thought them to be starving when they arrived, after many long days of travel. But here was Curufin, moodily staring at his plate of now mostly-mangled dumplings and half-eaten veal, sniffling occasionally.

Something was definitely wrong with him. Perhaps something had upset his stomach? That would explain the lack of appetite… but not the sniffling. If he was emotionally distressed that could cause both the sniffling and the lack of appetite… but that didn't seem quite right coming from a son of Fëanor. If he were dealing with a mortal, Elrond would have thought him to be sick with a cold, but that just couldn't be the case…

_Could it?_ Elrond frowned.

"I'll be right back."

Seven pairs of eyes all turned in time to see him go charging out the door and down the corridor.

"He always was rather excitable," Maglor commented absentmindedly.

"Do you think maybe the silence was getting to him?" Celegorm grinned. "He is still young, compared to the rest of us."

"Oh please, one millennium is not so great a difference, Turko," the musician snarked back as he stood and pointed an accusatory finger. "And besides, even as an elfling he was more mature than half of you could ever hope to be!"

"Calm down, Kano," Maedhros sighed, poking his brother with the stump of his arm. "He's a grown elf, he can take care of himself now. No need to defend him."

That thought seemed to sober him instantly, and Maglor sunk back into his seat. _Elrond, a grown elf?_ He and his twin had still been barely out of adolescence when he had last seen them.

The room returned to silence, save for Curufin's sniffling, and so Elrond was none the wiser when he returned bearing a mug of peppermint tea and a steaming bowl of chicken soup. Although he did take note of the suddenly despondent expression on Maglor's face.

"Here," he said, placing the items in front of the sniffling elf. "See if those aren't more to your liking."

The _peredhel_ didn't wait for Curufin to react, but returned to his seat with a bit of a self-satisfied grin and resumed eating his meal. If he was right about the stomachache, the peppermint tea should help. And the soup he had heard was good for mortals when they took ill, though he still had doubts that that was really the Fëanorion's problem. He was still secretly banking on emotional distress.

Curufin looked suspiciously at the new food he had been given. Tea and soup? Really? He doubted either would taste much better than the mashed dumplings he had already attempted. Sniffing tentatively at the tea, he was surprised when the warm steam cleared his sinuses almost instantly.

"Whoa," he muttered to himself as he took a cautious sip. Again, he was pleasantly surprised. It tasted quite good, as did the soup when he tried it.

Meanwhile Elrond's self-satisfaction only grew. Now that Curufin was eating (quite enthusiastically, he thought), he could move on to other thoughts, such as why Maglor was suddenly so unhappy. Instead of asking directly, however, he turned to Maedhros.

"What is wrong with Maglor?"

"Hm?" The redhead glanced up. "Oh, I think he's just realized you aren't an elfling anymore."


	7. Chapter 6: Catfights and Killjoys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody gets feelings...just in rather different ways.

* * *

The Fëanorions woke the next morning to the glorious smell of hot food. How anyone had entered their room in the middle of the night without waking any of them was a mystery, but breakfast was already laid out for them on the center table. A large basket of warm rolls dominated the table along with trays of strawberries and melon slices, bowls of fresh cream, and—much to Celegorm's delight—a platter heaped with sausages and rashers of pork.

"I love it here," Maglor mumbled through a mouthful of ripe strawberries.

"It _is_ rather nice," Maedhros admitted, gazing out the window. Beyond the pane of glass the valley laid out before them, the waterfall casting a halo of light across the city. _What a pity that we'll soon leave this all behind, and exchange it for the bloody fields of war._ If any of them remembered the valley after yet another fight for survival and the destruction of their foes, the eldest Fëanorion mused, it would be a stroke of Eru's blessing. He grimaced as he realized he might lose one or more of his brothers to the upcoming battle. _Or Elrond,_ he thought despairingly. _What if we lose Elrond? Would Maglor be able to take that?_

Maedhros sighed as his brothers began to leave the room. He wouldn't let his dark mood ruin everyone else's day, but he did decline when Maglor invited him for a walk in the gardens. Soon only the twins were left; they perched on one of the beds, braiding each other's crimson hair into even more intricate designs than usual.

"What do you two have planned for today?"

"Swimming," Amras piped up. Amrod smiled as his brother tied off his braid with a leather band. Maedhros could have sworn that he saw the tips of his second-youngest brother's ears turn red. Amras continued, unaware. "Remember that _elleth_ we talked to last night?"

Maedhros nodded, and he thought he could see Amrod blushing even more. It brought a smile to the eldest brother's face, remembering how they had told him all about the she-elf they met while walking around the garden after dinner.

"She invited us to go swimming in the river with her and some of her friends!" Amras exclaimed proudly. "So we're walking down with them after they finish breakfast."

"You'd best be going then," Maedhros said, glancing out the window to check the time. "They may leave without you if you don't arrive soon…"

A brief, horrified glance out the window; then both leapt off the bed and made for the door. At some point on their way past, they bade Maedhros a hasty farewell, though he barely caught it. There were too many other things on his mind.

Maedhros wasn't the only one lost in thought though. Not far off, the second son of Fëanor was perched on the edge of a stone bench, watching a bumblebee as it buzzed from flower to flower on a rose bush nearby. Just as it was taking off again, Maglor heard footsteps coming down the path.

"Would you mind if I accompanied you?"

Maglor glanced up to see Elrond looking down at him with a hopeful, almost fearful expression, as if he thought his foster father might reject the offer of his company. The Fëanorion, however, just waved his hand at the spot beside him.

The young elf lord sat down next to him, and followed Maglor's gaze to the bumblebee as it floated off to another flower. For a time they sat in silence, until the elder of the two spoke.

"How did Elros die?"

Elrond frowned. He debated over how much to say, how much detail to include. It would take more time than they had to recount the entire history of Númenor. But there were some things that had to be mentioned, if only to justify his choice. He took a deep breath, preparing to explain.

"Elros was always a bit...different... In some ways, at least. I always knew that at one point our destinies would part, but I never expected it to be in such a permanent manner. At the end of the War of Wrath, the Valar came to us and asked us to choose our fates, whether we wanted to belong to the race of men or elves. Of course, you know which I chose"—he paused to steady his voice—"but Elros chose to be counted among men."

"Ah," Maglor whispered. A tear fell from his face. He wanted to sob, to cry freely, but this was neither the time nor place for it. He could not be falling to pieces now, not out here where anyone could see and especially not in front of Elrond. He took a deep breath.

"I always thought he would die in battle," Maglor said, watching as the bumblebee left for another section of the garden. "He was always the fighter between you two."

"He died a king of men," Elrond said. "But he did not leave us without something to remember him by."

Just then another set of footsteps came up the path. Maglor looked up to see not an elf, but a man, approaching them. He was very tall for his kind, and wore a winged crown decorated with jewels. His eyes held the same silver-grey light as Elrond's and his hair, though beginning to lighten as all men's do, maintained much of its original raven luster.

"Lord Elrond," he greeted, dipping his head minutely. "I would speak with you, if I may."

"Of course, King Elendil." Elrond rose from the bench and bowed slightly to Maglor. "I will see you at dinner, _Adar._ "

Before Maglor could reply, the two started back down the path, discussing some strategy or another. The willowy elf stared after them, a smile spreading across his face.

"Elros got himself a girl," he whispered. But a moment later he realized that he was alone again: alone in the garden and staring at the various insects as they went about their business, contemplating the nature of the mess he and his brothers had been dropped in the middle of.

The three middle brothers had no such troubles on their minds. They sprawled around at the edge of a large green-space; Caranthir splayed comfortably against the grass, while Celegorm perched in the tree that Curufin leaned against.

"I'm bored," Caranthir whined. "I hope we get to leave soon. I hate this place."

"Shut up, _auk_ ," Curufin said, aiming his foot at his brother's head. "If you don't keep your mouth shut, you're really going to get us kicked out of here. Remember what happened at Nargothrond?"

"I did _not_ get us kicked out of Nargothrond," the hothead snapped back, dodging nimbly.

"Both of you, hush," Celegorm called down. "Listen—there are people coming."

Sure enough, a group of elves arrived on the other side of the grassy area, carrying bows and targets. Among them was the tall blond from the day before: Glorfindel. And by the looks of things, Erestor was with them as well, though it was hard to tell with the hood of his cloak hiding most of his face.

Celegorm and Curufin watched as the other elves set up the targets at different distances from some arbitrary point on one end of the clearing, while Caranthir ripped up chunks of grass.

"Good morning," Glorfindel called as he walked past them, balancing a target on each shoulder. "You may want to move, else you want Elrond to be pulling arrows out of you all afternoon."

"Is your aim really that horrific?" Caranthir mocked.

"Perhaps you should be asking your corn-headed brother that instead," the warrior grinned back. "He did—what was it?— _miss the jugular_ , after all."

"Hey!" Celegorm shouted, flipping out of the tree. He landed solidly on his feet, blocking Glorfindel's path, then planted his hands on his hips, sky-blue eyes narrowed. "Why don't you tell me that to my face?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know you were there," Glorfindel said breezily. "If you're that hurt over it, perhaps you would like to join us? To prove your skill, as it were."

"I accept," the hunter growled, retrieving his bow from where he had propped it against the tree. He then stormed over to where the rest of the archers were gathered, his brothers reluctantly following. After all, they didn't want to be hit.

A few of the other elves gave Celegorm strange looks as he stood among them, a scowl upon his face. Glorfindel returned shortly, however, and soon the Balrog Slayer was preparing to take the first shot on his ornately carved bow.

He pulled back the string, taking his time to line up the shot. With a whistle of air and a satisfying thunk, the arrow sank deep into the furthest target, landing just outside of the center circle.

"Think you can beat that, skinny?" Glorfindel taunted as he stepped aside to give Celegorm a chance.

The elf in question chose not to reply as he stepped forward. He wanted to say he could hit that target with his eyes closed, but he knew he was limited by the equipment he had. Even his arrows were old, their fletching ratty and bent. But he could make do.

He made to pull back the string, when—

_CRACK._

The bow shattered in his hand, sending splinters of wood flying everywhere. Celegorm gasped when he was hit by several of the shards of wood, particularly in his hands and face. For a moment after that, no one spoke or moved. They simply watched as the blond hunter picked up the remnants of his bow and turned to his brothers.

"My…my bow's broke," he said. He stared at the broken pieces of wood in his hands. "My bow's broke…my bow's not supposed to break, though…"

Caranthir's eyes widened when he saw that Celegorm's arrow had landed exactly where he had been sitting just moments before.

"Um, Turko?" Curufin muttered. "You have…something over your eye."

Celegorm tentatively brought a hand to his face, his eyes increasing to the size of dinner plates when his fingers met a large chunk of wood stuck above his left eye.

"What the _fucking shit_ is this—ah, son of a fucking _bitch_ there's wood in my Eru-damned face, noooo, my _face_ —why, in the name of Eru's fucking left buttcheek, why _meeeeeee_ —"

Laughter broke out across the group, and no one even noticed Erestor when he pushed through their chuckling masses to get to Celegorm, who had by this time turned almost redder than the blood dripping down his face.

"Come on," Erestor said loudly, almost drowned out by the sniggers. He took ahold of the blond hunter's arm. "Let's get you cleaned up."

Celegorm followed as the advisor tugged him in the direction of the main bulk of the city, not even paying attention to the various twists and turns they took to get there. Caranthir and Curufin followed soon after, once the younger of the two had retrieved his brother's misfired arrow.

"Why don't you pick up his pride while you're at it!" Glorfindel sneered as the four elves left, prompting another round of guffaws. Pleased, the blond elf looked around; then, in a slightly panicked voice after looking back out over his group of comrades: "Where is Erestor?"

Maedhros had been alone for quite a while. The twins had left some hours ago, and he had yet to move from his seat by the window. He had been content to watch the waterfall from where he sat, occasionally whistling along with the birds that came to perch on the sill for a while. This truly was a peaceful place.

Until his brothers returned.

Caranthir slammed the door open, causing Maedhros to nearly fall out of his chair. After him came Curufin, and then the elf they had rescued in the Trollshaws, who was leading a very dazed looking Celegorm.

The hunter held what looked like the remnants of his bow, his hands covered in splinters. There were a few in his face as well, including one particularly nasty piece above his eye. Maedhros facepalmed.

"Turko, what happened?" Maedhros sighed as Erestor led him into the room.

Celegorm only looked sadly up at his brother, holding up the pieces of wood in his hand. "My bow's broke."

"Yes, yes, I can see that," Maedhros said as he took the broken weapon and set it aside. "What happened? And don't lie to me."

Caranthir shuffled awkwardly, knowing he was partially to blame, but remained silent. Curufin, on the other hand, spoke up without hesitation as he jabbed a finger at the hotheaded elf beside him.

"This fool managed to insult the only living Balrog-slayer in Middle Earth!"

"It's as much his fault as it is mine!" Caranthir snapped back. "If he hadn't dissed Turko…"

"Enough," Maedhros said, silencing the room. Erestor froze as well from where he was getting Celegorm into one of the chairs.

"I...will be back shortly," the bald advisor said as he scurried out of the room.

Maedhros sighed as he fell back into the chair he was occupying earlier.

"Why is it always you three?" he mumbled. "Can't we have something go wrong, just once, and have it not be your fault?"

"What's he muttering about?" Curufin asked Caranthir.

"No clue," came his reply. "But we ought to do something about Cactus Face over there."

"Aye."

Both looked at Celegorm, perched in the chair where Erestor had left him, staring at his hands. He picked at the painful bits of wood, and managed to get one out of his palm. It was quite large, and covered in blood. With a wry grin, he flicked it in his brother's direction.

" _Ewwwwwwwwww!_ " Caranthir squealed as he leapt away. "Turko, stop! That's repulsive!"

Erestor opened the door to see Curufin laughing hysterically as his brother pranced about like a doe who just stepped on a snake. The advisor blinked a few times before actually entering the room, just to make sure that what he saw was real, with Elrond following close behind.

"This is new," the elf lord commented as he set down the small pack he had brought with him. Choosing to ignore the ruckus occurring in the rest of the room, much like Maedhros was on the other end of the chamber, he dug a pair of forceps out of the bag and wandered over to stand in front of Celegorm.

"You weren't joking when you said he was a mess."

"Yes, and that's why I'm leaving him to you," the advisor said quickly. Before Elrond could reply, he had already scurried back out into the hallway. Who could blame him, really? The place was a madhouse.

"Well then, Celegorm," Elrond sighed, tilting his face so he could see better. "This will take a while, so you must stay very still, alright?"

The blond hunter grumbled but nodded. It seemed this day could not get much more humiliating for him. First the insult from Glorfindel. Then his bow broke. Then he missed the target _completely._ Now he had Maedhros's fosterling picking bits of wood out of his face. Of all the things...

He began to scratch at his hands. He tried to pick out a few more of the splinters, but the way Elrond was holding his face meant he couldn't see what he was doing.

"Stop picking," the elf lord snapped as he grabbed the Fëanorion's wrist. "You're making yourself bleed more."

"Sorry, they itch," he muttered as he folded his hands in his lap.

Elrond tugged on the large piece of wood above Celegorm's left eye. Unfortunately, it was a bit stuck.

"Ow!"

"Sorry, it's jammed in there tight," Elrond said with a frown. "Stay here, let me get a knife."

"No!" the hunter exploded, leaping out of his chair. "My face has seen enough trauma today. I am _not_ letting you near me with a knife!"

"Come now," chided the healer. "The knife will be a small one—no need to fret. I'm sure you have endured worse."

"I refuse to let it happen. Not to my face."

Elrond sighed in exasperation. He did _not_ need this today. Gil-galad's forces could be arriving any moment. There were still preparations to be made. He had woken up late after bringing the brothers breakfast. His own breakfast had been cold. And now this _ellon_ was more worried about his face than the infection that was probably already setting in. Who knows how old and nasty that bow was?

" _Atto_?" he called to Maedhros, who briefly looked up from the parchment he had been looking at. "Might I have some help?"

"Tyelkormo Turcafinwë, do as Elrond says."

"No!" the blond shouted back. "I'm not going to let him cut open my face, Nelyo!"

"You will, if that is what he deems necessary."

"You cannot tell me what to do! _He_ may call you Father, but you are not _my_ father, and therefore have no right to order me around!"

"Do you want your face to end up looking like Maedhros's?" Curufin snapped from where he stood near the hearth. Caranthir sat on the rug nearby, intent on staying out of his injured brother's throwing range.

Celegorm took a deep breath. "Fine."

While the brothers argued, Elrond found the knife he wanted and a pair of forceps and was waiting patiently by the time Celegorm decided to cooperate. He had given thought to using one of the larger ones, just to be a snark, but in the end decided against it.

The blond hunter returned to the chair he was previously occupying and did his best not to squirm as Elrond brought the knife near.

"I'll be gentle," the healer said as he poised himself to cut. "If you do not move it will be over quickly."

"I am not an elfling in need of your comforts, _Peredhel_ ," he hissed.

Elrond only shrugged, refusing to let the Fëanorion's jibes get to him, and began to work at the chunk of wood in Celegorm's face. In truth, he had no intention of actually cutting it out, save as a last resort. The knife was more to tease it loose than anything else—which it momentarily did.

"There," the elf lord said triumphantly as he held up the splinter, now free of its sheath in the hunter's flesh. In the light, Celegorm was shocked to see that it was not, in fact, all that big. "Now for your hands."

"I can do those myself, thank you," the blond protested, snatching his hand away when Elrond reached for his wrist.

"Oh really? Tell me, Celegorm, how stiff are your hands right now?"

The hunter fought to keep from grimacing as he flexed his aching fingers.

"They're fine," he lied. "Now give me those forceps."

The blonde reached out to snatch the tool out of Elrond's hand, but ended up knocking them to the floor instead. He dove out of his chair after them.

" _Atto_?" Elrond called to Maedhros again, this time a bit more frustrated. "May I—"

"No," the eldest Fëanorion said sternly, interrupting the healer without even looking up from his parchment.

"But he—"

"No."

" _Atto_... _please_?"

"No. Elrond, you have treated patients more difficult than my brother in the past."

"Yes, but I didn't have all the tools back then that I do now!"

"It matters not."

" _Atto_ , I've improved the formula and—"

"Elrond, you nearly killed Celebrimbor."

"Wait a moment," Curufin growled. "You nearly killed my son?"

"That was thousands of years ago!" Elrond sputtered. "There was just a bit of a dosing mixup is all…he was fine once it wore off, as far as I know."

"Sit down, Curvo," Maedhros said, still not looking up from the parchment he was reading. "And for the last time, Elrond, I am not going to let you drug Celegorm. I would rather not run the risk that he won't wake up before Gil-galad gets here."

"...fine." The elf lord turned back to Celegorm, who had finally managed to pick up the forceps. "Hand those to me."

After a few fumbled attempts at using the tweezers, he relinquished the tool. After that, Elrond made quick work of most of the slivers, using the knife on one or two more difficult ones.

"See? Not that bad," the healer said to the blond hunter, who merely pouted. Elrond shrugged and strode back over to his pack, dropping the forceps in and pulling out a small jar of earthy salve.

"Curvo," Caranthir whispered to his brother, who was busily fiddling with the hem on his tunic. "That jar over there looks like the stuff that was dripping out your nose."

Curufin silenced his brother with a quick thump on the head and a muttered "shuddup".

The room filled with a sweet, heady aroma as Elrond pulled off the jar's wax-sealed canvas lid. Celegorm peered in.

"Eugh! I know not what that is but there, there are... _insects_ in it! I want nothing to do with it!" The hunter scooted as far away from the healer as was physically possible.

"These are not insects," Elrond sighed. "Poplar flowers, Celegorm. _Poplar flowers._ They're part of what gives the balm its properties. Now hold still like I asked you to earlier.

Reluctantly, Celegorm settled down and allowed Elrond to spread the oily salve over his hands, arms, and face, wherever there had been splinters pulled out. The blond _ellon_ was surprised to find the stinging pain in his hands dying down and felt a bit bad for being so uncooperative. But more importantly.

"Will I…will I end up looking like Maedhros?" he asked softly of the elf lord, not wanting his brothers to hear.

Elrond chuckled. "No, the marks should heal within a few days, so long as infection does not set in, which it shouldn't. In fact in a few days I doubt there'll be anything left of them but memories."

But then a thought hit him. Where _did_ Maedhros get those scars? Elves didn't usually scar, and especially not as badly as that. Most of the time, the wounds healed without a trace. But Elrond remembered, even as an elfling, seeing Maedhros scarred and wounded. True, he could not regrow his hand, but the others should have healed cleanly...

" _Atto_?" he asked yet again, this time softly as he went over to sit near the window with the eldest son of Fëanor. Behind him the middle brothers oohed and aahed over the jar of salve. "You never told me when I was an elfling, even though I remember asking many times. But now I will ask again, and do not think you can tell me that I am too young to know, and get away with hiding it anymore. Where did you get these scars that not even reincarnation can erase?"

Maedhros closed his eyes and was silent for a long time.

"I...was given them in the same place I lost my hand."

"In Angband?"

"Yes." Maedhros opened his eyes, looking suddenly thousands of years older, and looked down at his remaining left hand. He didn't blame Fingon for the loss of his other hand because he knew if he hadn't let his cousin take that action, he never would have gotten off that mountain. In fact, he probably would have died there.

"Do they still pain you?" Elrond asked. Again, it was a question he had posed to Maedhros before, and never received an answer to. Even now, the scarred redhead took some time before answering, and the one word reply hardly answered the healer's question.

"Sometimes."

A silver tear streaked down his scarred cheek.


	8. Chapter 7: Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros has a nightmare, someone let the pretty boys out, and shit is going down.

* * *

 

 _This is what he knows and what he knows is pain. His ears tear with every whisper of air; in his nostrils is the cloying scent of rust, rust in the metal bands that force him into the stone and tighten around his lungs. He tastes it on his lips, in the metallic tang from the welts in his mouth. They have gagged him and they have choked him and still the bites only deepen and multiply._ Mustn't let him die too soon, _the voices giggle in the corner of his mind._

_Even stronger than the smell of rust is the smell of burnt fat and charred flesh, the intensity increasing with every time they strike their blazing torches across his open wounds, wounds borne from twisted blades and jagged blades and blunt claws digging into his body and his every conscious moment. He does not know if any skin remains on his back, does not know if any muscles remain, his bare flesh is so cold and yet blazing hot._

_Each breath he takes is pain too, his voice has long disappeared and all that comes out now are broken hisses and trickles of acidic blood and all that goes in are gasps and more blood. Coughing hurts worse than anything that they have done to him, beds of scabs and blistered burns ripping open every time he asphyxiates on his own bile._

_And in the darkness there is only the Eye, sometimes a distant light, sometimes flaring to engulf his entire field of vision, but never is it the sweet golden light of Laurelin nor the coveted solemn torches of Mandos-it is always the light of cursed dragonfire and it is always damned, just as he is._

Maedhros woke with a scream.

* * *

Well, not so much a scream as much as a garbled cry—he was panting too heavily for that. The only sound in the dark room was the unwavering snores of his brothers.

"Nelyo?" a tired voice whispered from the bed adjacent to the eldest Fëanorion's.

"I—I am fine, Kano," the redhead said. He attempted to sit up, slipped on his stump of an arm, pushed himself straight. "Go back to sleep."

"Nightmare?" Maglor asked, sounding more awake as he sat up as well.

"The same one."

"Angband?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Nelyo…"

"I'm fine," he repeated, though the way his voice cracked gave Maglor reason to doubt the truth of his words. "Honestly, I'm fine."

"When was the last one? Do you remember?" the younger asked.

As much as Maedhros wanted to tell his brother to mind his own business, he still sighed out an answer. "Before the War of Wrath. Since then, in Mandos, here, all my nights have been peaceful. Until now, of course."

"Hm," Maglor grunted, staring into his brother's hollow eyes. "I know back in Himring you said you never would, but maybe now…"

" _No_ , Kanafinwë. I will _not_ go see a healer," the redhead growled. "There is nothing they can do to help me. The dream has not left me, even after all this time. I doubt it ever will."

"Nelyo, more than an age has passed!" the younger chastised. "This has to stop, _hanno_. You could speak with Gil-galad, or—or what about Elrond? He is a healer, is he not?"

"Enough," Maedhros said tiredly. "I would not wish to force these horrors upon anyone else, least of all my foster son."

"Nelyo…"

Maedhros only shook his head and stood, the stone floor cold against his bare feet, and left the room, silently closing the door behind him.

He realized a moment later that he had no idea where anything in the city was.

The halls echoed with the soft padding of his footsteps as he wandered aimlessly. The graceful arches were so white and clean, a rare purity in his life. He paused, leaned against the wall to regain his bearings.

 _Now I don't even know where our room is,_ he realized, and slumped. The walls were cold too, soothing against his bare, sweaty back. He turned, pressed his forehead into the

_Rust_

_straps that force him into_

_voices giggle_

"No!" He struggled away from the wall and fell on his stomach; he scrambled onto his back, the arches twisted dark and loomed down towards him, every shadow was another

_blunt claws_

"No...no—"

A light in the distance, he half-ran, half-crawled toward it

_dragonfire_

_there is only the_

"No!"

But the light was soft this time, silvery, and he writhed out of the mass of shadows to sprawl on a large balcony. He rolled to his back, gulping in fresh air, careful to keep his eyes open and focused on the stars. High in the sky was Wilwarin, the most beloved constellation of the elves; to the north was Anarríma of the mother-stars, her four glittering gems smiling down upon him, and he felt himself calm.

" _Silivren penna míriel_ ," he murmured, " _o menel aglar elenath_."

He pushed himself up, wincing at the sudden smattering of bruises and aches across his body. _I'll definitely find someone for these..._ He limped forward and leaned against the railing of the balcony, gazing across the valley below him.

"Couldn't sleep?"

Maedhros turned to see Elrond, who stepped forward. The young elf lord leaned against the railing as well, and they stood together in silence.

"You may need some salve for the...bruise on your back."

"Hn," the redhead grunted.

" _Atto_...did you get those in Angband too?"

The older elf glanced at him with gaunt green eyes, then looked away. Elrond took the opportunity to openly examine his foster father. Bruises on his shoulders and back, a large scrape running up the length of his right arm, and his trousers were definitely a little worse for wear.

"I cannot imagine you had a calm walk to this balcony, _Atto_."

Maedhros dropped his head into his arms but chuckled wryly. "Aye, you can say that again."

Elrond smiled as well. "Shall I collect some salve, then? Arnica will work wonders."

"That would be most welcome."

The younger _ellon_ hesitated for a moment, then allowed his chin to rest on his forearms.

"That's poor posture, Elrond," Maedhros said automatically.

"You are in no position to chide me, father dear," Elrond laughed. "And you'll notice I haven't slouched before now. Although"—he reached his arms out and stretched luxuriously—"I must say, this is most comfortable."

The redhead tilted his head so that he could look at the elf lord. "You've grown," he said.

"I would hope so." Elrond mirrored him. A pause, then: "There is no darkness here, Maedhros."

The Fëanorion blinked in surprise.

"There is no darkness here," the _ellon_ repeated. "So long as you live here, you need not fear the shadows nor the demons of your mind. So please, Maedhros Fëanorion...rest easy during your stay."

A soft smile touched the older elf's lips, and the misshapen muscles of his back relaxed for the first time that night. He opened his mouth to speak, but Elrond straightened up and remarked, "The Last Homely House wouldn't be quite so homely if that were true, and I have a reputation to maintain, after all."

Maedhros snorted. "You and your questionable naming sense."

"It's not questionable if it's true, _Atto_ ," the elf lord tossed over his shoulder as he walked back inside.

The redhead watched as his fosterling turned a corner and walked out of sight; he stared at the shadows, daring them to rise again, but the graceful arches remained as they were. Suddenly exhausted, he turned and slumped against the railing, sliding down until he sat on the ground. Far above, the stars twinkled down at him.

" _O menel aglar elenath_ ," he mumbled, and fell asleep.

* * *

When Maglor next woke, he was not surprised to see Maedhros's bed still empty. He sighed and rolled out of bed, knowing his brother had likely gotten lost and fallen asleep somewhere uncomfortable as a consequence.

The rest of his brothers were still asleep, and so Maglor was quiet as he dressed. All that was for naught, however. He opened the door and cursed loudly when his foot collided with something large and heavy.

The musician looked down to see a long box wrapped in paper with a note attached to it. Two words were scrawled across the parchment: _Celegorm Fëanorion._

Deciding to leave it where it was for his other siblings to deal with, Maglor tried to put himself in Maedhros's shoes. Or bare feet, as it were. _If I were Nelyo, and about to have a mental breakdown, where would I go?_

He decided to go left.

There were few elves awake at this time in the morning, and the few that Maglor happened upon seemed to barely notice him. Though whether that was because they didn't wish to acknowledge him or because they were still half-asleep was anyone's guess. Regardless, the second son of Fëanor remained alert.

He glanced into every nook, every cranny he passed, scanning for a splash of red hair or scarred flesh. The musician hoped that his elder sibling had found a place to sleep after he had left; he doubted Maedhros was familiar enough with their fosterling's house to find his way around in the dark.

Finally, Maglor found what he was looking for.

"Nelyo?"

There was Maedhros, fast asleep, leaned against the stone railing of a balcony. His neck was bent at an awkward angle, and one leg was partially stretched out while the other was bent against his chest. Somehow, though, he looked at peace, with the first rays of sun turning his hair to fire.

"Nelyo?" he asked again, now beside his brother and shaking his shoulder lightly. "Nelyo, you should wake up. It is morning now, and I don't think you want everyone to see you sleeping here with your...er, trousers all torn up."

"Hm?" Maedhros grunted, blinking sleepily as his eyes met the morning light. "Kano? What are you doing out here? Where am I?"

"You had a nightmare last night, remember? You left the room and I would assume you went wandering, got lost, and fell asleep here, on this balcony."

"Really?" Maedhros looked around blearily. "I suppose I really should put some clothes on then."

"Yes, or maybe you should just go back to sleep," Maglor added as he helped Maedhros to stand. "You look like a barrow-wight."

"Thanks."

* * *

Curufin yawned, stretching as he rolled over, and crashed to the floor as he fell out of his bed.

"Owww…" he moaned as he got up slowly, trying to gauge whether or or not he had hurt something vital. When he judged that he had not, he wandered over to the table, where breakfast had once again been set out for them. It wasn't until then that he realized that two of his brothers were not in the room.

"Nelyo? Kano?" he called. _Maybe they're pulling some sort of elaborate prank,_ he grumbled to himself. Then: _No, they're more immature than that._ He decided to ignore their absence.

He glanced out the door as well, just to make sure they weren't hiding in the hallway. His brothers were still nowhere to be seen, but the large box definitely caught his attention. He stooped down, saw Celegorm's name, and smirked.

"Oy, Cactus Face." He tossed the box at a snoring Celegorm, where it collided with the hunter's behind. "You've got mail."

A muttered "Arse-head" was heard as a sleepy Celegorm rolled over to inspect the package. Curufin burst into laughter upon the sight of his brother's face. The hunter's flesh was inflamed and swollen, making him look like a big red cherry. At the ruckus the remaining Fëanorions also woke, some choosing to join in with their own chuckles.

"What?" Celegorm slurred, confused as to why his siblings suddenly found his face so amusing. "What's the matter?"

Caranthir stifled his laughter for just long enough to start explaining. "Your…your face, Turko…it's…"

"Red as a cherry, and swollen too."

All eyes turned to see an exhausted-looking Maedhros standing in the doorway, with Maglor right behind him.

"You're one to talk." The blond glared at his eldest brother. "You look like you slept in the streets."

"He basically did," Maglor chuckled, earning a sour look from Maedhros. "But no matter. What, pray tell, is in that wretched box, Turko? From the pain it inflicted upon my foot this morning, it must be quite heavy."

Celegorm needed no further encouragement, but tore into the paper covering the gift he had received, disregarding the note for the time being. Beneath the paper was a beautifully carved wooden box, decorated with the image of a party of hunters pursuing a solitary stag. It had two latches, plated in silver. The contents of the box, however, were truly magnificent.

His eyes went wide in wonder. "It's…a bow…"

But it was not just any bow. It was made of yew, and decorated almost as ornately as the box. It was strung with spider-silk, inlaid with leaves of mother-of-pearl, and polished to a seamless finish. Alongside the weapon was a brand new quiver with two dozen white-fletched arrows.

" _That_ must have cost an arm and a leg," Caranthir said, appraising the inlays and gold leaf.

"Who is it from? I can't imagine you've made many friends here," Curufin sneered.

Celegorm reached for the note and unfolded it.

"'My apologies for yesterday's events. What happened with your bow was'—there are some words scratched out here, but I think the next one is…ah yes—'unfortunate. I should not have made fun of you for something so completely out of your control as your bow exploding. It is my sincere hope that you will accept this gift as my expression of regret for my actions. Sincerely, Glorfindel of Gondolin.'"

"That was…kind of him," Maedhros said, a little shocked at the Balrog-slayer's actions, considering what he had heard of the previous day's events.

"Wait, there's more," Celegorm continued, squinting at the small writing at the bottom of the page. "'P.S. There's only room for one pretty blond boy in this valley, bitch.'"

"Oh dear," Maglor said quietly, as the hunter's rage seemed to boil within him.

"How _dare_ he," Celegorm hissed. "He has _no right_ —"

"Alright Turko, I think it's time to calm down now," Maedhros said as he placed a hand on his blond brother's shoulder. "Ignore the note. Just go take your new bow out to the range and try it out, alright?"

Celegorm would have frowned, but for some reason his face was not responding like it should have. It was as if all of the muscles in his face were stiff and swollen, refusing to move. So he settled for an indignant "Humph."

As the group wandered out, Caranthir whispered to Curufin, "How does the Balrog-slayer know that word?"

"I guess Lord Námo curses louder than he thinks he does," Curufin muttered back.

* * *

Glorfindel was all out of sorts. He just didn't know what to do with himself. Even getting out of bed this morning had been a challenge. It wasn't that he was particularly tired; he just didn't have the motivation to care.

"Get up, Glorfindel," Erestor had griped. "You're an embarrassment. Ereinion will be here any day, and you want me to tell him, when he asks where you are, that the Seneschal of Imladris is too lazy to get out of bed?"

The golden-haired Balrog slayer had only grunted and rolled over so that he didn't have to look at the smaller elf.

So here he was, finally out of bed and dressed, sitting beneath a willow tree by the river. He still felt bad, though why that was he had not the slightest idea. He had no desire to attend to any of his usual duties, and no elf in the region would dare rebuke him for doing otherwise, save perhaps for Elrond himself. So instead he fiddled with the small blades of grass at his feet.

Now that he thought about it, he really didn't _want_ to go to war. He rather liked his life here, his duties. Even if he was ignoring them right now. At least Erestor was going with them—he didn't think he could bear to be separated from him for more than a day. Glorfindel thought he would even go so far as to swipe a Palantír from Gil-galad if it meant he could still see Erestor.

But luckily that wasn't the case. He could have Erestor right by his side for every moment….

Wait.

Every moment.

Every living moment.

Glorfindel blanched. There was no way he was letting his beloved anywhere near the fighting, especially in the fragile state he was in at the moment. No matter that Erestor had fought in the defense of Eregion, that he was an accomplished and capable warrior (when he remembered to take his sword with him…). He refused to allow it.

Just then, he heard footsteps and indignant grumbling coming in his direction. It was a sound he was as familiar with as he was with his own voice, and so he leapt up without a second thought and sped down the path.

"Erestor!"

In mere seconds he had the other elf wrapped safely in his arms, kicking and complaining though he might be. After his recent thoughts, he was even more reluctant to give into his demands to "set him down immediately". But eventually he realized that if he didn't, Erestor would eventually find a way to escape on his own, and _that_ would be even worse.

So with a frown, the golden-haired warrior delicately set his Little Luthien on his feet in front of him.

"You know, you really should be drawing up battle plans or something," the dark-haired elf commented as he brushed off his tunic. "King Gil-galad is finally here, and he is wondering where you are."

"Why?" Glorfindel asked with a tilt of his head.

"Oh, I don't know," Erestor said. "Maybe it's because we're going to war, and _you're_ the one in charge of _all our military operations!"_

"...I had not thought of that," the warrior said quietly.

Erestor couldn't stop the sigh that escaped him. "No, of course you didn't."

* * *

_{He is back.}_

_{My lord?}_

From his throne the armored figure stirred, a smile lifting his bloodless lips, and he rested his cheek on a black-plated fist.

 _{You,}_ he said, pointing at a nearby Orc. _{Fetch me the Tall One-Hand.}_

The brute's gash of a mouth split open as he sneered. _{Gladly, my lord.}_

The figure watched as the Orc lumbered away and felt his black heart stir with ecstasy. His finest project, returned to Middle Earth—he couldn't have asked for more.

"You've come back to me, Maedhros Fëanorion," the Servant of Morgoth whispered.


	9. Chapter 8: Gil-galad's Adventures in Rivendell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gil-galad has a bad time and apparently everybody knows cuss words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello all! This is Ping with a heartfelt apology for the lateness of this chapter—I swanned off to China and forgot about uploading what with all the craziness and, um, the Great Firewall, that too. And poor Mike can't access any of the accounts.
> 
> Soooooo. To make up, this is a double upload—Chapter 2 of /Redoomed/, the companion series to /Undoomed/, is also up! Cheers!

* * *

"Where did he go?"

Erestor scanned the courtyard where the High King had just been and felt a facepalm coming on. He knew that the rest of the troops from Lindon had been shown to a clearing just outside the valley where they could set up camp, but Gil-galad was most certainly not supposed to follow them...but of course, whether or not he knew that was a matter even Manwë couldn't possibly foresee.

"He was just here," the advisor sighed as he buried his head in his hands. "Please don't tell me this is a repeat of last Yule…."

"I'm certain he's safe," Glorfindel said reassuringly, placing a hand on the shorter elf's shoulder. "He's the king, what could happen?"

Erestor spun around to face the blonde, hysteria etched on his face. "What could happen? _What could happen_? Do you not remember, Glorfindel, what Ereinion Gil-galad single-handedly managed to do when this city was still being built? No, of course you don't...you didn't arrive until later..."

Glorfindel's eyebrows rose as the advisor began to pace around the courtyard, muttering about all the different places the missing king could be, when:

_CRASH._

Something like a moaned sob came out of Erestor. "Not again!"

Before Glorfindel had even identified what the sound had been, Erestor was sprinting toward the kitchens.

"Ope." The blond warrior was left standing alone in the courtyard, wondering vaguely what he should do. After a moment of thought, he trailed after his sweet baboo.

By the time Erestor reached his destination, he was out of breath and embarrassed, as his hood had fallen on the run there, revealing his bandaged and disheveled head. But none of that was so important as the sounds that the bedraggled elf could hear through the closed door to the kitchen.

"I said I was sorry!" shouted a voice that quite obviously belonged to the High King, followed by a loud _clunk._

"That's not good enough!"

With that the door to the kitchen was flung wide open and Gil-galad was hurled through. If Erestor hadn't been standing exactly where he had been, it might have ended differently. But as it was, the High King was unable to stop himself from crashing into Elrond's chief advisor and knocking him to the ground.

"Oof!" both _ellyn_ grunted upon impact.

"Urgh...I can't...wait a moment…"

"Ow!"

"—sorry, hold on…"

Winded, the King pushed himself onto his elbows, accidentally palming the other elf's face into the ground as he did so.

"Oh, I'm sorry! Are you quite alright down there?" Gil-galad said, looking concernedly at Erestor. "It looks like you've got a bruise starting to form on your temple."

"Your Majesty," Erestor protested, his face turning red.

"No no, hold on." The King leaned forward, closely examining the skin below Erestor's cropped hair, and noticed his suddenly darker complexion. "Yes, there's definitely a bruise—do you have a fever?"

"I—no?"

"I think you do, actually, your skin is extremely warm!" The King put a hand against the other elf's forehead and one against his own; finding the result inconclusive, he pressed his forehead on the other _ellon_ 's and nodded decisively. "Definitely warm. Did you get warmer, actually?"

"Your Majesty—"

To his horror, Erestor saw a flash of gold out of the corner of his eye.

Glorfindel stopped in his tracks, jaw hanging unhinged. There was another elf. On top of his beloved Ery-boo. _And wHY ARE THEIR FOREHEADS TOUCHING_ —

"You," the Balrog-slayer growled deep in his throat, and the King found himself slammed against the wall, an extremely-angry blond elf glaring maces at him.

"Care to explain why you were enjoying the company of my lover?"

Somewhere back in Mithlond, Limdir got a bad feeling.

* * *

All was quiet in Elrond's council chambers. They were missing several more elves, namely Erestor, Glorfindel, and the High King, whose presences were necessary for the meeting to proceed. As it was, Círdan, Elendil and his sons, Elrond's other advisors, and Elrond himself all sat around a large table, awkwardly waiting for their arrival. Elrond finally decided to attempt breaking the ice.

"Where is—"

Elrond was interrupted when the door to the chamber swung open, revealing one royally pissed Balrog-slayer. Erestor trailed sheepishly behind. But what had the entire council on their feet was what Glorfindel held behind him.

Ereinion Gil-galad, beaten and bruised, was being dragged into the chamber by the golden-haired _ellon_ , whose hand was clamped firmly around the King's collar. With an unceremonious heave, he tossed the king up onto the table. There was enough force behind the motion that the king slid clear across said table, finally coming to rest with his head directly in front of Elrond.

The young elf lord looked first down at the High King of the Noldor, then to his advisor, and then at Glorfindel, taking note of the murderous rage in his eyes.

"I honestly do not even have the words for this…" Elrond sighed, fixing Glorfindel with a more pointed glare. "I suppose I ought to ask what happened, but at this point I can rightfully say that I am afraid to know…"

"That _filth_ ," Glorfindel hissed, red-faced and jabbing a finger in Gil-galad's general direction, " _dared_ to touch _my beloved Erestor_."

Gil-galad looked up at Elrond, having not moved an inch since he had been flung across the table. Either because he couldn't or because he was smart enough not to was anyone's guess.

"I just thought he had a fever…" Gil-galad said meekly, looking to his herald for help diffusing the volatile elf.

Ignoring the King for the time being, Elrond rose and addressed the blond warrior.

"Glorfindel, please calm down," he began, passing Erestor, who looked a little worse for wear, as he approached the Balrog-slayer. "I'm sure this is all just a misunderstanding, and that King Gil-galad has no intentions of taking Erestor from you—"

"They were _touching foreheads_ , Elrond!" the golden-haired warrior nearly bellowed. "How is that not—"

"I thought he was sick!" Gil-galad shouted from where he was still sprawled out on the table, his face bewildered and sad. "I was just checking his tempera—"

"Like Void you were!"

"You speak to the High King of the Noldor, Glorfindel!" one of Elrond's advisors snapped.

"You think I give an Orc's backside? He was touching _my_ Erestor and now he's going around _lying_ about his true intentions!"

"I swear I speak the truth! I was thrown out of the kitchen, and—"

"Just happened to land on my lover? As if that's even believable!"

" _Literally_ thrown?" Círdan said interestedly.

"Enough!"

Instantly the chamber fell silent and all eyes turned to Elrond, who was now even less enthused than he had been before. His eyes burned with fury at his seneschal's behavior, his face a stone façade to rival that of Námo himself.

(In the Halls of Mandos, Námo sneezed.)

"Glorfindel, go to your chambers and do not leave until I see fit to release you." Glorfindel's eyes widened, shocked that Elrond would order him to his quarters like some elfling that had been caught digging up his mother's flower bed.

With a growl he wandered over to Erestor, making to grab his arm and drag him off with him, before Elrond interrupted.

"No, Glorfindel. Erestor is to remain here, with me. Now go."

The finality in his tone had nearly everyone else in the chamber cowering slightly. The blond warrior spun on his heel, just as angry as he was before, and retreated to the privacy of his own quarters.

When the door slammed shut the entire room was silent. No one dared speak, except for Gil-galad.

"Should I be afraid right now?"

Just as Erestor was about to answer in the affirmative, there was a knock at the chamber door. Slowly, the latch turned and the door swung open to admit a very confused looking Maedhros.

"Did I just miss something?"

He surveyed the room, seeing a number of people he didn't recognize, Erestor looking disheveled, Círdan with his face unreadable as ever, Elrond looking furious and... _Is that Gil-galad on the table?_

* * *

For unknown reasons, the meeting proceeded with Gil-galad sprawled on the table. Elrond had offered multiple times to help the King off the table and into a chair, but the _ellon_ in question had declined each time, instead requesting a pillow.

Throughout the discussion he had offered his input normally, as if he had just been sitting. But his…rather compromising position had raised several silent questions from the other councilmembers, especially once they noticed his torn trousers and the red patches adorning them.

Everyone shuffled out when the discussion was finished, save for Elrond and Erestor. Even Círdan had no desire to get involved in whatever feud his fosterling had started with the Balrog-slayer.

"How are you faring, _mellon-nín_?" Elrond asked of the King once the room was mostly empty.

"...I've been better."

"Are you sure you do not wish to sit down?"

"Elrond, I think if I sat down I would scream."

The Lord of Imladris gave Gil-galad a quizzical look before he too spotted the blood on the _ellon_ 's trousers. Being an experienced and skilled healer did nothing to keep Elrond's stomach from turning at the sight.

"If you're sure you're comfortable there…"

"Yes, Elrond, I don't think I'd like to move much right now. Thank you for the cushion, though, it's really quite lovely."

"Alright…then would the two of you mind explaining to me what happened before the meeting today?" the herald sighed.

Silence; then Gil-galad offered:

"I got thrown out of the kitchen."

"You see, he went missing, and there was a crash…" Erestor continued.

"I was just trying to _help_ , the lembas loaves were so...dull!"

"Aaaaand I was standing outside the door, coming to rescue him from the...wrath of the cooks."

"I landed on this young _ellon_ here, which I'm very sorry about."

"He squashed my head into the pavement, accidentally I'm sure."

"Really, I'm very sorry about that, I didn't notice that your face was there. And, and I wanted to make sure he wasn't hurt, because, well, I'm not exactly light."

"I started blushing because, well…" Erestor made some vague gestures and Elrond facepalmed yet again.

"Oh, so that's what that was! I thought he had a fever, his face was so red, so I checked his temperature."

"...by placing his forehead against mine."

"I still don't understand why your seneschal was so angry," Gil-galad finished.

Elrond buried his face in his arms and let out a small groan. Erestor was unharmed, at least physically. Glorfindel was angry and offended, enough that he had seemingly taken violent action against the High King of the Noldor.

Gil-galad had obviously not gotten out unscathed.

"And what happened after Glorfindel arrived?" Elrond asked, bracing himself for something unbelievably inappropriate.

"Well…" Erestor began.

"Suffice to say I will not be riding a horse anytime soon."

Elrond cringed, but was silent for a moment. He took some time to formulate a response, and chose his next words very carefully.

"Was anything…vital damaged?"

"I...I don't know. I don't _think_ so..."

The herald sighed. "Erestor, go to your chambers and make sure Glorfindel hasn't wandered off. I will meet you there in a few minutes. My lord"—he turned to Gil-galad—"...I will send up some healers shortly."

Elrond's advisor left without question, glad to be out of the room where the High King of the Noldor was lying on a table bleeding from his...nether regions. He made doubly sure that he closed and latched the door behind him, making a mental note to warn the healers. He thought he heard a quiet "But Elrond, you're my favorite healer!" ("No.") coming from the room and chose to ignore it, instead walking briskly back to the chambers he shared with Glorfindel. _That little blond_ [censored] _is going to get a piece of my mind._

He expected to find the blond warrior pacing about the bedroom, mad as a rattlesnake and spitting out all the curses he had learned in the Halls of Mandos. What he found instead was Glorfindel, sitting quietly in one of the seats by the hearth, a glass of Dorwinion in hand and almost literal jets of steam coming out of his ears.

As soon as the door opened the Balrog-slayer spun around and somehow managed to make a happy face whilst glowering.

"Erestooor~" He tripped and smashed his nose into the rug, managing to save his glass of wine in the process. "You've come back—hang on—"

He struggled back to his feet and stumbled over to the advisor, who wrinkled his nose at the smell of fermented grapes. Glorfindel carefully patted Erestor with his wineless hand, checking for...something.

"I still don't believe he— _hic_ —didn't do anything to you," the blonde growled. "Really, Ery-boo, stop being so pretty, everybody will want to do dirty things to you."

"Laurefindil. For the last time, the High King of the Noldor _didn't do anything to me._ Didn't. Do. Anything. In all honesty I don't think the _ellon_ even knows how—"

"We can check—"

" _GLORFINDEL NO_."

"But Ery-boo—"

" _WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU'RE PUTTING YOUR HANDS_."

Several elves who were walking past a few halls down glanced over at the sound of a loud _CA-THUNK._

"But Ery-boo!" The Balrog-slayer looked up from the floor, a pout on his face. "I just wanted to check—"

" _I am perfectly unscathed, thank you!_ And no, you're not getting any! What do you think you're trying to look at!"

Following a boot to the face, Glorfindel pouted a bit longer, finally putting down his wine-glass in order to rub the rapidly-forming lump on his head. A couple furtive glances towards the furious advisor; then he sighed, massaging his temples.

"Do you have any _miruvor_?"

The advisor pulled down a flask from a nearby mantle and handed it to him; the Balrog-slayer took a swig, shook his head a few times, and returned to his seat.

"You're absolutely certain you're unharmed?" he said quietly.

" _Yes_ , Glorfindel."

Glorfindel hesitated a moment longer, then held his arms open with puppy-dog eyes. Erestor deadpanned but accepted the hug. A few moments of peace and quiet; then:

"I still wish I'd finished the job."

"Glorfindel, you utter ass-hat!"

The warrior snapped to attention. "Where did you learn that word?"

"From you, of course," Erestor growled, and broke from the hug to backhand Glorfindel across the face. "Now sober up, you sorry excuse for an elf lord. Elrond is on his way."

"Elrond?"

"Yes?"

Both looked to the door just in time to see the Lord of Imladris enter, looking tired, frustrated, and for all intents and purposes like he was ready for the day to end already.

None spoke as Elrond invited himself in. He calmly went about filling a kettle with water and setting it on the hearth, intent on making tea. Erestor excused himself to the other room before the awkward silence could get any worse.

The two elf lords stared at each other intently, one grumpy beyond relief and one finally starting to shake off the alcohol, though the latter was still indignant that Elrond had taken Gil-galad's side. The room was completely silent, save for the crackling of the fire; a high-pitched _eeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEE_ filled the room as the water began to boil. Just as wordlessly as he had before, Elrond rose and made them both some tea.

Glorfindel chose not to notice that his wineglass had been replaced with a teacup.

The Lord of Imladris sipped at his tea, waiting for his seneschal to speak; when nothing was forthcoming, he set down the cup and crossed his arms.

"You crossed a line today, Glorfindel."

 _No shit, Elrond._ He didn't say it out loud, though. No matter how much he wanted to.

"You blatantly attacked the High King of the Noldor."

_Because he was straddling my lover in the hallway._

"You tossed him like a sack of flour onto the council table."

He couldn't think of a comeback for that one, so he just did his best to keep from laughing.

"Are you _completely_ insane?"

_Bitch, I might be._

But instead he said, "Think of how this looks from my end, Elrond. I stumbled upon my mate looking rather intimate with another _ellon_. What would you do in such an instant?"

Elrond was silent, and so the blond warrior continued.

"Erestor _is_ a rather small elf. And Gil-galad is not exactly petite. You might then see the conclusions I have come to—"

"No," the younger elf lord stated firmly. "I refuse to believe that was the case."

"Are you so certain, Elrond?"

"Gil-galad may be daft at times, but he…he's too innocent. He would never—"

"Are you _so_ certain?"

"Are _you_ , Glorfindel?" Elrond glared at his seneschal, half-daring him to answer yes.

The other elf was silent, obviously contemplating his answer. He knew he couldn't get away with lying, no matter how much he wanted to protect Erestor.

"...No."

"Then there is no reason to think otherwise," Elrond continued adamantly. "What you did to him in your anger was unacceptable, to say the least. Although the High King asked me not to mete out any discipline against you, you are under _my_ command, and this transgression cannot go undealt with."

Glorfindel groaned internally. This was one aspect of his actions he had not foreseen.

"If we weren't about to go to war, I would relieve you of duty immediately," the younger elf lord continued. "But as it stands I believe that would be unwise, even with the delay you have caused."

The blond tilted his head, prompting elaboration. He wasn't quite sure what Elrond meant by that.

"Gil-galad can barely walk, Glorfindel, much less ride a horse. Needless to say, we won't be leaving Imladris in three days like we had planned. We will need to wait until he has sufficiently healed."

The Balrog-slayer barely hid his amused smirk.

"In the meantime, I expect you to use that time to organize the armories."

Glorfindel's jaw dropped.

" _All_ of them."

"Bwuh—but—"

"Be glad I didn't send you to muck out stables, Glorfindel."

From the other room Erestor called, "He's right, Glorfindel."

The Balrog-slayer glared in his lover's general direction but grumbled out an agreement.

Elrond rose from where he had perched himself across from Glorfindel, intent on leaving on that note. He made his way to the door, but called over his shoulder just before turning the knob.

"And, one last thing, Glorfindel...do you mind telling me why there was blood on King Gil-galad's trousers?"

Glorfindel glared. " _Snip snip, motherfucker,_ " he hissed.


End file.
